


little green soldiers

by nasa



Category: Avengers Assemble (Cartoon), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - War, Angst, Fluff, Get Together, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Mentions of PTSD, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 11:07:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16659961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nasa/pseuds/nasa
Summary: “Rhodey,” Tony says. “I’m not stupid. He’s shipping out in three months. I’m not going to fall in love with him.”Tony is a student at MIT; Steve is a soldier. They meet at a house party six months before Steve is set to deploy. This is their story.





	little green soldiers

**Author's Note:**

> I was blessed to get two lovely, lovely artists for this fic. Their art has been posted separately - please, please, please go check it out and give them some love! Links in end notes as well.
> 
> 1) https://archiveofourown.org/works/16653580  
> 2) https://archiveofourown.org/works/16664095

Rhodey is drunk.

“Come on,” he insists, “Don’t be dramatic, Tony. I’m not drunk. I’m - tipsy.”

Tony snorts, pulling Rhodey back up to his feet from where he’s started to list sideways. “Tipping over, maybe.”

It’s only one in the morning, but they’re on their third frat house of the night, which means they’ve been drinking for hours. Or, rather, Rhodey’s been drinking for hours; in a move Tony is really starting to regret, he’d promised he’d take a night off drinking for the first time so far this year, giving Rhodey a chance to really let loose. And boy, is Rhodey letting loose.

Rhodey laughs, mellow and slurred. “You’re funny, Tones. Have I ever told you that? You’re funny. ’S why I’m glad we’re friends.”

“Sure, sugarbear,” Tony says, hoisting Rhodey up by the waist. “Look, you gotta work with me here, otherwise you’re gonna end up passed out in a ditch instead of a bed.”

“Right,” Rhodey says. “Cause that’d be bad. Why’d that be bad?”

“You know, maybe it wouldn’t,” Tony says. “You want to go live in a ditch? Be my guest. I’m sure the sewer rats will be great company -“

Tony has more to say - a whole speech prepared and ready to go - but before he gets a chance to use it, Rhodey’s bending at the waist to puke all over the kitchen floor.

Behind Tony, someone groans. “Aw, man, that’s the third fucking one tonight!” a girl whines. “Why can’t people handle their liquor?”

Tony flips her off over his shoulder, though he understands the sentiment. “Come on, buddy, let’s - okay, yeah, sit in the pool of vomit, that’s great.” Tony tiptoes around the spatter carefully, finding a clean patch of floor where he can squat next to Rhodey without staining his shoes. “How you feeling, huh?”

“‘M tired,” Rhodey groans, leaning his forehead against his knees. “Don’t feel good. Who the fuck invented tequila?”

“Satan,” someone says behind them, and Tony turns to find the literal hottest human being on the planet smiling down at him.

“Hi,” America’s Next Top Model says. “Need a hand?”

“Uh, yeah I do,” Tony manages, then immediately kicks himself for not coming up with a better pick-up line.

But People’s Sexiest Man Alive doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, he just grins at Tony and passes him a bottle of water. “For your friend,” he says. “You might want to take him out back. All the rooms are taken but I happen to know there’s a bench on the porch.”

“Sleeping under the stars,” Tony says, glancing over at Rhodey. “Not too different from dreaming in a ditch after all, huh?”

“You go on,” Bootylicious says from above him. “I’ll clean this up.”

“Thank god, ‘cause I really did not want to do that,” Tony says, earning a chuckle from Hot Stuff. Tony pushes himself to his feet and hauls Rhodey up with him. “Come on, out to the barnyard we go.” He starts dragging Rhodey towards the door, but pauses halfway there, turning back to Channing Tatum Mk. 2. “What’s your name, handsome?”

“Steve,” Big, Blonde and Beautiful says.

“Steve,” Tony repeats. Not the name he was expecting, but it fits, now that he thinks about it. “Nice to meet you. I’m Tony.”

Steve’s smile softens. “Nice to meet you,” he repeats. “You better head outside before your friend pukes again,” he says, after Tony doesn’t move, and Tony tries to suppress the twinge of disappointment he feels at the clear brush-off. Tony’s turning away when Steve adds, “But maybe I could bring you some crackers? For your friend, I mean.”

Tony flashes a grin over his shoulder. “Yeah,” he says, warmth curling in his chest. “That’d be nice.”

“Aww, somebody’s getting laid,” Rhodey warbles in Tony’s arms, and Tony feels his cheeks flush.

“Right, okay, time to go outside now!” he all but shrieks, manhandling Rhodey onto the deck. He carefully doesn’t look behind him to see Steve’s expression, but he thinks he hears the start of a laugh.

“You’re the worst friend ever,” Tony informs Rhodey as he tugs him out into the cool night air. Sure enough, there’s a cushion-covered bench on the far end of the porch. There’s a couple of girls sitting on it, chatting, but they take one look at Rhodey and vacate their positions.

“Thank you!” Tony calls to them as Rhodey slumps onto the seat. “The drunk boy thanks you!”

Rhodey pouts, rubbing his face against the cushion. “That’s not very nice,” he complains. “This couch is nice. But you’re not being nice, Tones.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you get wasted on two cups of Jungle Juice and leave your awesome best friend to take care of you.”

Rhodey snorts, head lolling against the cushions. “This isn’t what I do to you.”

“No,” Tony agrees. “You draw dicks on me.”

“That was one time, Tones! And it was, it was funny, you know it was, you like sucking cock so I gave you a goddamn cock to suck, you’re welcome -“

“Am I interrupting?”

Tony turns to find Steve standing, almost bashfully, a few steps away. He waves a sleeve of saltines and a banana in the air. “I brought snacks.”

“Fabulous,” Tony says, reaching out to pluck the banana from his grasp. He peels of the skin and takes a sizeable bite. “I love fruit.”

Steve raises an eyebrow at him, but he’s grinning. “Um, that was kinda meant to be for him.”

“I don’t think Rhodey-bear deserves any snacks.”

Rhodey pouts. His drunk pouts are especially potent; he doesn’t have any shame left, so he doesn’t worry about getting mocked later, meaning he looks dangerously close to an actual puppy dog. “Oh, fine,” Tony grumbles, breaking off a bit of banana and shoving it into Rhodey’s mouth. “Don’t throw it up.”

When he glances back at Steve, he’s wearing an almost conflicted expression. “You two aren’t -“ He wiggles his eyebrows. “You know?”

“Aren’t - oh! Oh. No, we are definitely not - uh, no, Rhodey’s like my brother.”

“Big brother!” Rhodey garbles around the mouthful of banana he has yet to swallow. “Big brother, impressive big brother you should fear.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “He’s an idiot,” he informs Steve, who’s smiling again.

“Nice of you to take care of him,” Steve says. “Most people would have probably left him with a bucket to puke in.”

Tony shrugs, glancing down at Rhodey. He’s turned onto his side, and is humming some song Tony’s never heard before, staring out at the trees. “He does the same for me. Like I said, we’re practically brothers.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Steve says, brushing a hand over the back of his head, almost bashful. “I, uh, I have this best friend, Bucky - we grew up together, went to high school together, ended up here together. I can’t imagine my life without him.”

“I’m guessing you’re from around here, then?” Tony prompts.

“More or less,” Steve says. “I’m an East Coaster - I grew up in Brooklyn. I love New York, but I thought it might be good to get out for a bit, see a little bit different of an area. Plus, my Pa grew up here, and I thought - I don’t know. It’d be a good way to get in touch with him, or something? It’s stupid.”

He’s picking at his nails, so Tony reaches out to still his hand. “It’s not stupid,” he says, voice soft.

Steve swallows hard, eyes meeting Tony’s. They’re blue and sharp, and the moment stretches, the space between them seeming to shrink with every breath, before finally Steve coughs and looks away. “Anyway, enough about me. What brings you to Boston?”

“Student,” Tony says, pulling his hand away from Steve and trying to suppress a twinge of disappointment. “Like most of the people here, you know. Got into MIT a few years ago, working on my master’s now.”

Steve whistles, impressed. “Working on your master’s and you’re how old, exactly?”

“Nineteen,” Tony says casually, hoping it doesn’t sound like he’s bragging. It always sounds like he’s bragging. “You?”

“Twenty,” Steve offers. “Jeez, that’s impressive. And at MIT, too - you’re probably an engineer, right?”

Tony nods. “Yep. Current focus is mechanical engineering. For my master’s thesis, I’m working on a rudimentary artificial intelligence system that will hopefully lead to an operational helper bot.”

“Artificial intelligence? Wow, that’s -“

“Ambitious?” Tony offers.

“Incredible,” Steve says, and the thing is, he actually looks like he means it. “When I was younger, I remember reading about that kind of stuff in science fiction books. This is like - the invention of the smartphone.”

“Well, don’t get too complimentary, I haven’t cracked it yet,” Tony says. “There are a few classic problems I keep getting stuck on. But hopefully I’ll be able to figure them out soon.”

“I’m sure you will,” Steve says confidently.

“You don’t know me,” Tony points out, but he can’t help the pleased curl of his lips. “How do you know I’ll get it?”

“I know,” Steve says.

Tony swallows hard, deciding it’s time to change the subject. “So what about you? What do you do? As much as I appreciate your enthusiasm, I can tell you’re not an engineer.”

Tony could swear Steve blushes a bit, but he can’t quite tell in the dark. “I’m an artist,” he says. “Or, at least, I want to be an artist. Mostly I just do part time gigs.”

“No college for you?”

“Nah,” Steve says, looking down at his hands. “Part of it is that it’s expensive, but also - well - my Pa died in the Persian Gulf war. I grew up wanting to serve. Mainly I’m just biding my time until my enlistment goes through.”

Tony feels his eyebrows shot up. “A soldier,” he says.

Steve nods, the smile on his face tight. “Shipping out in six months, if everything goes well.”

“Well that’s - interesting.” Already, Tony is rethinking his initial assumptions - sure, Steve’s hot, and nice, but he can’t date a soldier. A one night stand, then. Maybe a string of them. Friend with benefits and no investment so his heart doesn’t get broken before Steve ships out.

“I should thank you for your service,” Tony says, stepping a little bit closer to Steve. “Guys like you keep our country running.”

Steve looks bashful. “I haven’t served yet,” he says. “I think thanks can wait until afterwards.”

Tony hums, swaying forward. “Well, we’re here now,” he murmurs, “And I’d like to give you a little something in return for your sacrifice.”

“Yeah?” Steve asks, almost breathless.

“Yeah,” Tony confirms.

In the dark quiet of the backyard, Steve feels very warm and very close. Even a few inches apart, Tony swears he can feel Steve’s heartbeat, and he leans forward, his eyes drifting shut as he gets closer and closer to Steve’s mouth -

There’s a sudden tug of movement and a retching sound as Rhodey hurls over the side of the porch. Tony huffs, leaning back, moment officially broken.

“Great timing,” Tony sighs, patting Rhodey on the back as he heaves. “As always.”

“I should probably let you take care of your friend,” Steve says, shifting away. “I don’t want to be the reason he chokes on his own vomit. And my friends are probably looking for me.”

“As much as I hate to say it, I think you’re right,” Tony says, grimacing.

Steve laughs. “That sounds like it was hard for you to even say.”

“Oh, yeah. I’m a know-it-all, this is something you will come to know about me very quickly.”

“I will?” Steve asks hopefully, and Tony realizes he’s acting as though it’s guaranteed that he and Steve will see each other again.

“I mean, not if you don’t want to - but I thought, maybe -“

“Can I have your number?” Steve asks, and Tony’s awkwardness melts into relief.

“Yeah,” Tony says, a smile quirking the corner of his lips. “Give me your phone.”

Steve makes a bit of a face. “Uh, actually, it’s dead,” he says apologetically. “There was a - thing, with the battery and some Mountain Dew and now the charge only lasts, like, twelve minutes.”

Tony snorts. “Of course there was. Okay, then, let’s go old-school. Got a pen?”

Steve doesn’t, but he ducks inside long enough to find a Sharpie in the kitchen. Tony uses it to write his number on the inside of Steve’s forearm. He debates and, at the last second, decides to add a little heart to the end of it, small enough that it’ll blur out of recognition in a couple of hours. Steve smiles when he sees it.

“I’ll call you,” Steve promises, taking the sharpie back. “You need any more help with your friend? I can call you a cab.”

“Nah, I think we’ll just stay here for the night,” Tony says, patting Rhodey’s hip. Rhodey’s stopped retching, now, and is laying on his side, one hand dangling down so it almost grazes the puddle of puke on the grass. “Thanks for all your help, Steve.”

“It was no trouble,” Steve insists.

“Well most people don’t exactly step up to help when someone’s trashed, so thank you. I guess I’ll - talk to you later?”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, “I’ll talk to you later.”

He hovers for one more odd moment before nodding, giving Tony an awkward half wave, and heading back inside the house. He glances over his shoulder just once as he’s stepping inside, meeting Tony’s eyes. Steve smiles, and Tony smiles back. Then he glances away for a second, and when he looks back up, Steve is gone.

“Guess it’s just you and me now,” Tony sighs, patting a hand on Rhodey’s back. “You feeling any better?”

Rhodey responds by heaving again.

Tony sighs and rubs his back.

-

They wake up the next morning sprawled in back-kinking positions on the deck, cold and vaguely dew-damp.

“Ugh,” Rhodey groans, turning his face in the wood to try to shield it from the morning sunlight. “Where the fuck are we?”

“Chi Phi,” Tony says. “Don’t you remember last night? You got wasted and yakked in the kitchen and then when a nice, hot, Greek God tried to help me take care of you, you puked again and cockblocked me just as I was about to get into his pants.”

Rhodey turns his head just enough to squint at Tony. “Uh, are you sure you’re not the one who was drinking last night?”

Tony rolls his eyes and smacks Rhodey on the shin, which is the closest accessible part of him. “What, is it so hard to believe a hot soldier would be interested in me?”

“Soldier?” Rhodey asks.

“Yeah,” Tony says. “That a problem, Mr. ROTC?”

“No, not - come on, Tony, don’t make me have a conversation when I’m this hungover. Just think you should be careful, you know. He’s a soldier, don’t - don’t get too attached.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Tony dismisses him easily. “It’ll just be a roll in the hay, anyway. Maybe two. Three, tops. You should see this guy, I swear you can see his abs through his shirt -“

“Your voice is like ground glass,” Rhodey groans, clamping his hands over his ears.

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I speaking TOO LOUDLY? IS THIS TOO LOUD FOR YOU, SOURPATCH? HUH?”

Rhodey moans.

They call an Uber to take them back to their apartment downtown, paid for with Tony’s dad’s credit card. As soon as they get back to their place, Rhodey retreats into his room to try to sleep off the worst of his hangover in a more comfortable location. With nothing else to do, Tony ends up in front of the TV, tinkering with the innards of a broken alarm clock while the X-Files plays in the background. His phone sits next to him, but aside from a couple texts from Bruce about salicylic acid and a Snapchat from Carol of a cute border collie she ran into in the park, he doesn’t get any messages.

Over the next couple of days, Tony tries to convince himself he’s not waiting for Steve’s call, but it’s a lost cause. He and Rhodey go back to their daily lives - eating shitty, three-day-old leftovers for breakfast in their shared apartment, then fucking around pretending to do work until they’re motivated enough to go to class or go to the lab, and then, once they’re there, not letting up until it’s way too late to do anything but order greasy takeout that they eat half of before passing out, thus restarting the leftover cycle.

But the whole time, instead of thinking about how great Rhodey is, and how much he misses Jarvis, and how the hell he’s going to get around the repetition limitation with his AI, he’s thinking about Steve, the hot model from the party. Well, okay - he still thinks all of those things about Rhodey and robots and Jarvis. He just thinks about Steve, too. It doesn’t take all of his brain power, but it takes, like, 15%, and for a genius, that’s a lot.

Because Steve is hot. Like, seriously. Sometimes his image will just drift into Tony’s mind and Tony will start thinking about what his thighs look like when they’re not clad in denim, the way the muscles of his back would ripple under his hands, how it would feel to lick a line down his abs -

So, yeah. Tony gets kind of distracted by his hotness. But it’s more than that, too. Steve’s - sweet. Not that Tony knows him very well, but he likes to think his instincts have been honed by a few years of shitty boyfriends and girlfriends, and Steve seems like a genuinely good person. Sure, Tony can’t exactly date him long-term, not when he’s going into the service, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a nice fuck-buddy for a change.

Rhodey finally notices him fidgeting in the lab two days after the party, when he keeps checking his phone every few minutes instead of getting so sucked into the work like he always does.

“Tones?” Rhodey prompts, and Tony drops his phone.

“What? It’s nothing,” he says hastily. “Just, you know. Making sure I’ve got service?”

“You’re waiting on a call?” Rhodey asks, eyebrow raised.

“No-ooo,” Tony tries.

“Tones.”

Tony makes his best innocent face.

Rhodey stares, unimpressed.

Tony sighs. “Fine. I’m waiting to hear from Steve.”

“Steve?”

“The guy from the party this weekend,” Tony mumbles.

“Tony,” Rhodey says, almost scandalized. “Are you actually - invested in someone?”

“Shut up,” Tony grumbles. “I just think he’s hot, okay? Criminally hot. And I haven’t had sex in, like, three weeks, okay, it’s not bad for me to be excited for a booty call.”

“No,” Rhodey agrees. “Not bad. Just - interesting.”

Tony doesn’t reply.

He finally gets a call from Steve three days after the party, of course when he’s in the middle of the chem lecture. It’s an unknown number, and Tony debates letting it go to voicemail, but it’s not like he actually needs to be in class to know what’s going on. So he gets out of his chair and all but sprints up the aisle to the door. The class is small enough that behind him, the professor’s speech falters, and Tony thinks he’ll probably need to make up some excuse for his behavior - maybe he can say a family member was sick, or something - but at the moment, he doesn’t care.

“Hello?” he asks breathlessly, as soon as he’s out in the hallway. If this is some random reporter who got his phone number or something, Tony is going to cut a bitch.

“Hi,” Steve says, voice warm and crackling over the phone line. “Um, this is Steve? From the party on Saturday?”

“Yeah, I remember,” Tony says, unable to stop the soft smile spreading on his face. “What’s up, Steve?”

“Uh, well, I wanted to see if maybe you’d be interested in going out, sometime. That is on a, uh, on a date.”

Tony’s heart thumps a little bit harder. “Yeah,” Tony says, trying not to let any excitement show in his voice. “Yeah, I’d be interested in that. What did you have in mind?”

“Great!” Steve says, sounding relieved. “Um, there’s a Thai place by MIT? You free tomorrow?”

Tony blinks. He’d been expecting something more - obviously sex-related. Coming over to watch Netflix. Meeting at a coffee shop. Hell, Tony had had fuck buddies before who hadn’t even bothered with pretenses, had just straight up asked him if he could come over for sex.

“Yeah,” Tony says anyway. Dinner before the spectacular sex can’t hurt, right? “Sounds good.”

“Perfect! I’ll pick you up at seven?”

“I’ll see you then.”

He gives Steve his address and Steve says “Great!” a few more times before they hang up the phone. For the rest of the day, Tony’s floating on air. Even his professor’s annoyance doesn’t put a dent in his joy - he’s going on a date with the hottest guy this side of the Mississippi, and then they’re going to have fantastic, animal sex. It’s going to be awesome.

-

Steve shows up the next day at seven pm on the dot.

“Hey,”Tony says breathlessly when he answers the door.

“Hey,” Steve grins. He looks practically edible in slim, dark-wash jeans and a button-up shirt that’s just a bit too tight on his arms. “I brought you flowers.”

He did. It’s nice little bouquet of wild-looking buds, stemmy and bright and green. Tony takes them from his outstretched hand, rubbing his thumb against one of the leaves and biting back a smile.

“That’s sweet of you,” Tony says, because it is. “One minute, let me just -”

He manages to find a plastic jumbo cup from a baseball game he and Rhodey had gone to a few months ago, and he fills it with water for the flowers. He debates for a minute before he settles them in the center of the kitchen table, right where the beam of sunlight always comes in from the living room window.

When he turns back around, he finds Steve still hovering the doorway. “Okay, ready,” Tony says, ushering Steve out the door.

“Don’t you need to lock that?” Steve asks as Tony starts down the hall.

“Nah,” Tony says, waving a hand. “We don’t really have much worth stealing and besides, Rhodey’ll be home in, like, ten minutes.”

“Rhodey,” Steve says, holding the door to the stairwell open for Tony. There’s an elevator in the building, but it’s broken and, despite Tony’s repeated offers, the landlord refuses to let him fix it. The fluorescent purple OUT OF SERVICE sign has been hanging up so long it’s started to disintegrate where it hangs. “That’s the friend you were with at the party, right?”

“One and only,” Tony agrees. “He’s on his way back from ROTC practice now. But, hey, enough about him. Let’s talk about you. You look incredible.”

Steve blushes, a surprisingly delicate rose shade that spills down his cheeks to the collarbones peeking out from under his shirt. “Thank you,” he says. “But, I mean, you - wow.”

Tony smirks, putting a bit more sway into his next step. He chose his outfit carefully - tight jeans, sleek shoes, and a silky maroon shirt that compliments his skin tone. It’s his classic first-date outfit, suitable for nice restaurants and seedy movie theaters and the grimy bathroom of a gay club. And, in this case, cheap Thai.

“How far away is this place you’re taking me?” Tony asks, huddling his shoulders a bit. It’s not quite cold yet, just hitting the peak of fall, but it’s chilly enough in the evening that he wishes he had brought a jacket.

Steve glances over at him, and, seeming to notice Tony’s predicament, makes an aborted movement towards putting his arm over Tony’s shoulder, seeming to think better of it halfway through.

“Not far,” he promises. “Just around this corner, actually - it’s called Pepper Sky’s, have you never been here?”

“Can’t say I have,” Tony says as the round the corner. Sure enough, he spots the sign for the restaurant just a half block down the road - old and faded and decorated with what he presumes are meant to be ambiguously Asian designs.

“It’s really great,” Steve tells him. “My friend Nat introduced me to it when I first moved here. Their pad see ew is incredible.”

A bell over the door jangles as Steve and Tony step inside. A cat statue grins at them from the hostess stand, waving its arm in a perpetual greeting.

“Welcome to Pepper Sky’s! Table for two?”

The restaurant is busy, and they end up at a cozy little booth by the kitchen. Tony doesn’t mind, though; a spicy-sweet smell hangs heavy in the air, and the little table offers the perfect view for people watching.

They order quickly, eager to get to dinner now that they’re here. Their waiter is a chirpy young man with an impressively long beard, and Tony exchanges a few jokes with him before he disappears, pad of paper and their menus in hand.

“So,” Steve says, after a brief silence. “You said you were an engineer?”

And so begins one of the best conversations of Tony’s life.

It’s not that Steve’s hilarious, or a genius, or a source of revelations, though he is funny and smart and insightful. It’s just - interesting, talking to him. Fun. He directs at Tony an intensity of focus that would almost be intimidating, if it weren’t so clearly well-meaning. He gets the impression that Steve really cares - that he genuinely wants to hear Tony babble about orbital mechanics and the philosophy of mind and how ducks are inferior birds. And in return, Tony listens to Steve speak - telling Tony about his mom and his art and how pineapple is a monstrosity on pizzas.

“Uh, no,” Tony interrupts, when Steve starts on that tirade. “Are you insane? Pineapple is the perfect pizza topping. It’s complimentary - salty and sweet.”

“No,” Steve argues right back. He waves his hands when he gets passionate about something, Tony has noticed; already several times tonight, the habit has resulted in spatters of soy sauce across the table. “Not everything salty needs something sweet. Heck, would you put chocolate on a pizza?”

Tony shrugs. “Why not?”

Of course, he would never do something so disgusting, but Steve doesn’t need to know that. Sure enough, Steve starts spluttering indignantly, and Tony has to hide his grin in his noodles.

“You know, I wanted to call you right after we met,” Steve tells Tony, towards the end of the night. Their plates have been cleared and they’re chatting over an empty table, candle burning low in the center. “But Bucky convinced me that’d be too desperate. Apparently, you have to wait three days before you ask someone out.”

“Don’t date much?” Tony guesses.

Steve shakes his head ruefully, looking down at his water glass. “Nah,” he says, tone light. “I was never very, uh - popular, in high school. I used to look very different. And then recently, I guess I’ve just been too - busy. Haven’t quite found what I’m looking for.”

“Which is?”

Steve looks up at Tony, something dark burning in his eyes. “The right partner.”

So, yeah, they end up having sex on the first date. But who could blame him? Steve is practically a Greek god - no, a Greek goddess. He’s Aphrodite, in the flesh and muscles, and on top of that he’s kind and sweet and interested in Tony. So, yeah, after a brief argument about the bill (“I asked you out, I’ll pay,” - “No, I’ll pay for my own meal, you sexist,” - “That doesn’t even make sense-”) they go back to Tony’s place and have sex. Filthy, hot, animal sex - several rounds of it. Once on the floor, because the bed is just a few too many steps away; a second with Tony riding Steve, pressing his palms against the headboard as it shakes against the walls; and a third round with Steve pressing Tony against the wall, holding him up with his frankly otherworldly upper body strength.

By the time they slump, sweaty and lethargic, onto the sheets, it’s almost two in the morning. “Good?” Steve asks Tony as they lay there, panting.

Tony looks over at Steve. His hair is messy and starting to gleam, an oily shine; he’s relaxed, motionless against the pillows; and his blue eyes are blinking over at Tony, sharp and bright and almost insecure.

Idiot, Tony thinks. He’s surprised to find more than a bit of fondness swelling in his chest; he’s only known Steve for a few hours. How is it possible he likes him so much already?

“Tony?” Steve prompts, a furrow growing between his brows when Tony doesn’t respond.

Carefully, Tony reaches out to cup Steve’s jaw in his hand, rubbing one thumb against Steve’s cheek. It’s stupid and sentimental, but right now he doesn’t really care. “Good,” he says softly.

They drift off not long after.

-

The next morning, Tony wakes up to cold sheets.

He has a moment to be irrationally disappointed - he doesn’t exactly need the sweet, considerate, let-me-hold-the-door thing, especially given the entirely un-gentlemanly sex they’d had only a few hours ago - before he opens his phone and finds a text waiting for him from Steve.

Hey, sorry, I had to go to work. Didn’t want to wake you. I had a great time last night - I’d love go out again. Let me know if that’s something you’re interested in :)

Tony hovers over the screen a moment before responding.

hey big guy, thanks for the text and last night ;) let’s do it again sometime

There. Casual but nice, right?

Tony tosses the phone to the now-empty side of the bed and resolves not to think about it for a little while.

He manages twenty minutes trying to go back to sleep before he gives in and checks it again. But when he does, there’s a new message notification.

You free this Saturday?

Tony flops back onto his pillow with a grin.

-

After that, things just sort of - fall into place. Steve takes Tony out on date after incredible date, each followed, of course, by round after round of incredible sex. None of the things they do together are things he would have planned for himself - roller skating, subway hopping, even walking the Freedom Trail with bagels from the Boston Public Market in hand. Along the way, Tony learns that Steve grew up poor, that his mom is a nurse, that most of his friends are going into the military, too. That he decided to become a soldier when he was just a kid, after he learned that his father died in combat before he was born. That he’s shipping out on March 3rd.

In turn, Steve learns that Tony is rich, that he’s the heir to Stark Industries, that his only plans are to draw out his education for as long as possible to avoid a position in the company. Admittedly, all of this information does not go over smoothly.

“Right,” Steve says, when Tony tells him about his wealth. He looks pale, faintly green. “Right, you - you’re a billionaire. Right. Of course.”

“This is why I said you should let me pay for dates,” Tony says gently, and a determined look crosses Steve’s face.

“If I ask you out, then I’m paying,” he says stubbornly, and Tony rolls his eyes and changes the subject, and ignores the sharp relief swelling in his belly.

There are some things he doesn’t tell Steve, factoids he deliberately withholds. One in particular is the existence of the little stack of polaroids at the bottom of his underwear drawer, wrapped in a rubber band and tucked away from anyone’s sight. Not even Rhodey knows those exist. Only Howard, now. It feels like a lie, sometimes, when Steve kisses him or hugs him or runs his fingers down the crease between Tony’s thigh and groin, following the touch with his wet mouth, but Tony can’t help it. This is just a casual relationship, and sure, maybe Tony’s more invested in it than he should be, and sure, maybe Steve feels like the most trustworthy person Tony’s ever met, even if he hasn’t known him long, but that doesn’t mean he owes him this. It doesn’t.

Tony’s still working on convincing his guilty heart of that fact.

It takes three weeks before Steve asks to introduce Tony to his friends. He’s already met Rhodey - at the party, of course, but also sober, when he stopped by the apartment to pick Tony up for their second date and found Rhodey sprawled on the couch in Captain America pajamas, yelling at the television.

“What the fuck!” he’s shouting, waving his hands like he’s trying to swat a fly. “Who forgets to get eggs for a fucking omelet?”

So Steve is basically going into this knowing that Tony’s friend is a drunk kook with a thing for Cutthroat Kitchen. He probably wasn’t very intimidated.

Tony, though - Tony is very intimidated. Steve talks about his friends like they’re fucking prophets sent from God, and he talks about Bucky like he’s God himself. Which, you know, is great - Tony’s glad Steve’s got good friends, especially since he knows some of them are shipping out with him - but it’s also kind of shit because the whole two days leading up to meeting them, Tony is a ball of nerves.

Which is stupid. You’re not getting attached, remember, Stark? Tony tells himself. Steve’s shipping out. He’s not attached, this is a fling. He doesn’t love Steve, he likes him in a very mild and friendly sort of way, and they’ll continue going on dates and having great sex until Steve heads off to the Middle East to get shot at, and that will be that. End of discussion. So, really, it doesn’t matter what Barnes thinks of him. What’s the worst thing that could happen? Bucky hates Tony so much he convinces Steve to stop having sex with him? Unlikely, and even so, Tony can lose a casual sex-friend. That’s not the end of the world.

The logic of it doesn’t stop the anxiety, though, so by the time Steve and Tony are rounding the corner for the little bar Steve says is apparently his regular spot, Tony’s all but shaking in his boots.

“You okay?” Steve asks, as he holds the door open for Tony.

“Fine,” Tony says, and steps inside before he can come up with a reason to chicken out.

Inside the bar is dark and dingy, filled with the faint smell of smoke and cheap beer. Everyone in the bar is college students; it’s 8:30, which means most of the people here are underaged, waiting for the clock to tick over to nine so they can start heading up to the bar without getting carded.

“We’re in the back,” Steve says, guiding Tony with a hand low on his back. It takes Tony a moment, but eventually he spots them; a rambunctious booth with a redhead and three guys arguing over something apparently important, their voices rising even over the din of the bar.

“Hey, guys!” Steve calls when they get close, and as one, all four heads swivel to face them. Tony swallows hard. “Uh, this is Tony. Tony, this is Natasha, and next to her is Bucky, and next to him is Clint, and then at the end is Sam.”

“Wouldn’t be able to tell us apart otherwise,” Sam says, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, shut up,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes.

“The infamous Tony,” Clint says, voice booming over the rest. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

“Clint,” Steve starts sternly, but he’s blushing, a rosy hue spreading across the back of his neck.

Tony manages an awkward smile at Steve’s friends. “Good things, I hope?” he says, sliding into the booth when Steve prompts him.

“Well -” Bucky starts, but before he can get very far, Natasha smacks him on the back of the head.

“Good things,” she promises, holding out a hand for him to shake. Her grip is firm and brief; Tony likes her already. “Want a shot?”

Scratch that - he loves her already.

“Yes, please,” he says, and she slides him two shot glasses, a bit of alcohol slipping out over the rim.

It’s awkward at first, but the alcohol does a lot to abate Tony’s nerves, and by the time he’s three shots in, he’s chatting with Steve’s friends like he’s always known them.

“Oh, you should have heard this kid,” Sam groans, leaning over Steve to talk to Tony. “I swear he would not shut up about you. It was Tony this, Tony that, Tony’s so smart, Tony’s so kind - I swear your name stopped sounding like a name.”

“This is - it’s an exaggeration,” Steve says. He’s got his head tilted back towards the ceiling, almost as though he’s trying to hide his tomato-red face; if he is, it’s not working. “I didn’t talk that much about Tony.”

“Dude,” Clint says, leaning close over the table. The music’s volume has increased as more of the crowd has bled onto the bulging dance floor, and they practically have to shout now to hear over the music. “I know his mother’s middle name. His mother’s middle name.”

“It was relevant information!” Steve protests. “I promise I haven’t told them anything private,” he tells Tony, who’s starting to get a little concerned by Steve’s apparent propensity for sharing.

“Nah, he’s right, don’t worry,” Bucky says. “Stevie’s a talker but he knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

“Yes, thank you, everyone, thank you so much for sharing - are you sure none of you have anything else to talk about?”

Steve looks almost painfully embarrassed now, so Tony reaches over to squeeze his thigh. It makes Steve glance at him, a smile softening his lips, before he turns back to the beer label he’s been peeling.

“Okay, new topic,” Bucky says. “Tony, has Steve ever told you about the time we rode the Cyclone on Coney Island?”

“Oh, god,” Steve groans, head slumping into his hands. “Let’s go back to talking about how sappy I am.”

“Nope!” Bucky says cheerfully. “Tony needs to hear this story. It’s important. It’s part of your identity, Steve.”

Steve just groans.

“Steve, you gotta know you’re just making this worse for yourself,” Tony says. “I was ambivalent before, but now I have to hear this.”

“Well,” Bucky starts, with the air of a bard about to start an epic tale. “It was 2003. We were thirteen years old and at the prime of our lives. Steve was still at his skinny runt stage, and we decided that it was time we attempted the dangerous feat of riding the Cyclone.”

Steve’s still slumped over on the table, head pillowed on his hands. Carefully, Tony reaches over, settling his hand on the back of Steve’s neck. Steve glances up at him and shoots him a half smile. Tony rubs his thumb over the bump of Steve’s spine and settles in for the story.

-

“What are you going as for Halloween?” Steve asks, a week before the end of October, as Tony and Steve wait in line for Starbucks.

Tony shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “I usually just go as Rhodey or something.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Rhodey?”

Tony shrugs again. “t’s easy. I tried to go as a mad scientist one year but nobody realized I was dressed up, they thought I just came from the lab.”

Steve laughs, swaying towards Tony. That’s something he does, Tony’s noticed; lean towards Tony when he thinks something is funny, reach for his hand or his shoulder or his waist. He likes to touch.

Tony can’t say he minds.

“Anyway, why do you ask? You have something in mind?”

“Nah,” Steve says, laughs tapering off. “I usually just go as a football player or something stupid. Hey, maybe we should do a two person costume.”

Tony raises his eyebrow. “A couples costume?” he asks, hoping his voice doesn’t squeak. They’ve been fucking around for more than a month, now, so maybe he should have seen this coming: still, the brazenness of it, the ease with which Steve brings it up in the middle of a crowded coffee shop, makes something twist in his chest.

“Why not?” Steve says. “More easily recognizable when there’s two half-assed outfits. Actually, there’s a costume I’ve been trying to convince Bucky to do with me for years now.”

“Oh?”

“Have you ever seen Toy Story?”

-

It takes Tony a moment to find Steve at the party.

It’s packed - this frat always is, on weekends, but this is Halloween, which means that there are twice as many people here as this tiny house can truly contain. Tony has to argue his way in the front door, and then squeeze around the edges of the room as he scans the room for Steve.

He’s about to give up hope when he spots it - a brown cowboy hat, bobbing above the crowd - and he shoves his way through the crowd before it can disappear.

As he gets closer, he realizes Steve is talking to someone. Not one of his friends, either - a girl Tony’s never seen before. She’s attractive, he notes, curvy with thick hips like Steve likes, wearing a tight Wonder Woman costume that shows off a lot of skin. She’s smiling at Steve, leaning in to hear him over the noise, a hand lingering on his shoulder.

“Hello, cowboy,” Tony greets Steve, sidling up closer beside him than is perhaps necessary. He wastes no time getting his hands on Steve, slipping his palm up to the small of Steve’s back and shooting the girl a sharp little smile that has her expression flickering. “You’re looking handsome tonight.”

“Tony!” Steve sets down his cup so he can pull Tony in with two arms. His conversation partner, clearly sensing that her window has closed, slinks back into the crowd with a scowl. “I missed you. Your costume looks great.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Tony preens, looking down at his suit. Bits and bobbles of it are store bought, but most of it he made himself - the boots, the flexible torso, the plastic visor that recedes into his helmet.

“Best Buzz Lightyear I’ve ever seen,” Steve confirms.

“Well, you’re looking pretty spectacular yourself,” Tony says. Admittedly, more of Steve’s costume could be easily appropriated from secondhand stores than Tony’s - the jeans, the yellow shirt, even the red ascot had been discovered in the bottom of a bin at Goodwill - but he’d had to make the cow-print vest himself, and he’d insisted on sewing thick lines of twine on his hat, to make it seem more authentic.

“Look at this,” Steve says, lifting one of his feet. In the dim light, it takes a moment, but eventually Tony is able to make it out - TONY, spelled out on the sole of his boot in thick, black paint.

“I think his name was Andy,” Tony manages around the sudden lump in his throat.

Steve shrugs. “Yeah, well, I don’t belong to Andy, do I? Come on, do you want something to drink? They’ve got everything in the kitchen. Nat and Buck were in there earlier, but who knows where they’ve run off to now.”

“They’re off smooshing booties already? It’s only eleven pm!”

“Actually, it’s midnight,” Steve corrects as he leads Tony to the kitchen. They’re holding hands. It’s not really necessary - Tony knows this house as well as Steve, by now - but Tony lets himself pretend it is, if only because Steve’s hand is nice and warm in his own.

“Whatever,” Tony says. “Close enough. Ooh, do they have Rum Chata? I want a Cinnamon Toast Crunch.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Those things are disgusting.”

“Says the man who eats plain hot dogs with nothing but ketchup.”

“It’s a classic topping!”

“And this is a classic shot.”

“Agree to disagree,” Steve says as they finally make it past the bottleneck of the living room and emerge into the kitchen.

It’s still pretty packed, but it’s a lot quieter than the other rooms, lacking speakers in an effort to encourage everyone to get the hell out. Steve moves to pull a shot glass from the cupboard as Tony hops up on a clear patch of counter.

“Fifty fifty?” Steve asks, pulling the Fireball out from behind the blender.

“Nah,” Tony says after a moment’s consideration. “Bit more Fireball.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Steve says.

A moment later, he comes over to Tony, an identical shot glass in each hand.

“Disgusting drink and you’re gonna have one?” Tony asks, taking his own shot from Steve’s hand.

Steve shrugs. “I’m gonna be tasting it anyway,” he says, gaze flicking down to Tony’s lips.

Tony grins. “You know it, baby.”

“You’re shameless,” Steve says, but it doesn’t sound like he really minds.

“To being shameless,” Tony says, holding his glass out for Steve to clink. He does; they take their shots in tandem.

“Ugh.” Steve grimaces, shaking his head like a wet dog. “That was disgusting.”

“That’s not the only thing that’s going to be disgusting tonight,” Tony leers, dropping his glass so he can wrap his arms around Steve’s neck, pulling him close between his thighs.

“How is that even - that’s not even sexy, Tony, that’s just weird -” Steve laughs.

“Weird is sexy,” Tony says. “Don’t tell me you don’t have some weird kinks - you need to start paying a lot less attention to my feet in bed if you want to convince me you don’t have a foot fetish -”

“Well, this is conversation I never wanted to hear.”

“Fuck off, Clint,” Tony says, at the exact same time Steve says, “Sorry, Clint.”

“Stop fucking in the kitchen and come socialize like normal people,” Clint says, swiping the almost full bottle of Jack from the top of the fridge. “And bring a couple boxes of wine. White. And a cup, Nat dropped hers on the grass.”

“Oh, is that all?” Tony asks.

“We’re out on the back porch,” Clint calls. “Nice costumes, by the way!”

Steve sighs, slumping against Tony as Clint disappears back into the crowd, navigating it with far more ease than either Steve or Tony have ever managed. “He’s probably right,” he says ruefully. “It’d be a shame if we spent so much time on these costumes only for them to end up on the floor after fifteen minutes.”

“Actually, I would argue it would be more of a shame if they didn’t end up on the floor after fifteen minutes.”

Steve rolls his eyes, stepping back from Tony and moving for a box of wine.

“No? What about thirty minutes? Forty five? Please don’t tell me you’re going to make me wait more than an hour for dick.”

“Come on, Tony,” Steve says, holding a hand out for Tony to take. “Let’s go socialize with our friends.”

“But in an hour -” Tony starts.

“In an hour, we will go find a closet all our own. I promise you, on my honor as Sheriff.”

“Well, if it’s on your honor as sheriff - I suppose I have to say yes. Take me away, cowboy.”

-

“So, you and Steve.”

Tony raises his eyebrows. “What about me and Steve?”

He and Rhodey are in the library, ostensibly working on homework, but in reality, simply getting distracted. Rhodey’s been trying to answer the same page of Women’s Studies questions for over an hour, and Tony has entirely given up on drafting his blueprints, opting instead to daydream about what he and Steve are going to get up to tonight.

“You seem like you’re getting - invested.”

“Invested?”

“I just mean you’re spending a lot of time with him. Seems like he’s becoming a big part of your life.”

“Yeah,” Tony says slowly. “For the next couple months, sure.” That’s when Steve ships out: March. And, yeah, maybe Tony’s spending a bit more time with him than he planned, but that’s just because he wants to get his fill before Steve is gone. Like bingeing your favorite food before you go on a diet. Nothing strange, nothing suspicious, at least not like Rhodey seems to think.

Rhodey sighs. “Look, I’m just saying - be careful, man. The way things are going, you’re gonna end up falling for him. And it’s gonna break your heart.”

“Rhodey,” Tony says, ignoring the way his chest twists. “I’m not stupid. He’s shipping out in four months. I’m not going to fall in love with him.”

“A million people have said that. Hell, that’s, like, a required line in any half-decent rom-com. Knowing your luck, you’re totally going to fall in love with him, and then spend the rest of your college years pining from afar -“

“No, I’m not, because I’m not going to be a military spouse,” Tony says sharply. “That’s not who I am, Rhodey. I am my own person. I am Tony Stark, genius billionaire playboy prodigy, I can control my own emotions. I’m not falling in love with him.”

Rhodey gives him a skeptical look.

“I’m not.”

-

Tony is totally in love with him.

It’s just - how could he not be? Steve is so - Steve. Kind and eager and so fucking genuine it makes Tony’s teeth ache. God, yesterday Steve picked him up from his chem lab and took him out to the Boston Botanical Gardens, where they wandered and ate homemade sandwiches while Steve asked questions about one plant or another. They’d been there a couple hours when it started raining, a sudden sun shower, and they’d darted for cover under a nearby evergreen, where they huddled together, Steve holding his jacket over Tony’s head.

And it’s so - stupid, it’s so fucking stupid, but they’d been standing there under the fucking tree, getting mud on their shoes because it was nature, dirty and real and a place Tony would never have thought to come if Steve hadn’t asked, and all Tony could think was that he would be happy to share everything with this man, if only he asked.

Tony tosses down his screwdriver with a sigh. He’s not being productive at all - every time he tries to focus he just starts thinking about Steve. How can he code this AI to recognize novelty of situations and surpass the repetition problem? He’s not sure, but you know what he is sure of? Steve is able to surpass the repetition problem. He’s novel. He’s the most unique thing in Tony’s life, like nothing Tony’s ever seen before, and -

Without really thinking about it, Tony picks up the phone and dials. It rings once, twice, three times, and Tony is preparing to hang up when there’s a click.

“Stark residence,” Jarvis says.

Tony relaxes unconsciously. “Hey, Jay,” he says. “It’s me. Long time no chat, huh?”

“Anthony,” Jarvis says warmly. He always sounds so fond, talking to Tony. “You’ve been avoiding my calls.”

Tony winces. “Yeah, sorry about that,” he says. “There’s, uh, actually some, uh, life stuff I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Ah,” Jarvis says. There’s the sound of something shuffling in the background, like Jarvis is sitting down. “So you just come to me for advice.”

“Not - just advice,” Tony says guiltily. “How are you? How’s Ana?”

“Oh, don’t try to dodge the question, young man. Get to it, what’s happened?”

Tony sighs, but he’s grinning. God, he’s missed Jarvis - why the hell hasn’t he been calling, again? “I, uh - well, I sort of found someone.”

Jarvis hums. “Did you now? Is it that Rhodes boy? Ana and I have a bet going.”

Tony splutters. “What - no, it’s not - Jesus, that’s disgusting, Rhodey’s like my brother.”

“Oh, I deeply apologize for disgusting you,” Jarvis says dryly. “Who is it, then? Have we met them?”

Tony picks at his cuticles. “His name’s Steve,” he says softly. “He’s - he’s really, really incredible, Jarvis, so nice, and genuine, and -“ He swallows hard.

“And?” Jarvis prompts.

“He’s a soldier,” Tony says. “Deploying in three months. And I’m stupidly in love with him.”

Jarvis is quiet for a long, long moment.

“My brother died of leukemia when I was twelve,” Jarvis says. “Did I ever tell you that?”

Taken aback by the non sequitur, Tony takes a moment to reply. “No,” he says finally. “You didn’t.”

Jarvis hums nonchalantly, like this is just a normal, casual conversation, the type of which they have all the time. “He was twenty-two when he died. Eighteen when he got diagnosed. Barely an adult and already dying.” Jarvis sighs. “He had a girlfriend, at the time. Childhood sweetheart. They got married a year into his treatment. I was young, and I didn’t really understand it - I was glad for it, that she was there, but I didn’t understand why she stayed. I always thought that if the same thing happened to me, I would have left. She wasn’t obligated to stay. It seemed to me she was choosing pain.”

Tony swallows hard around the lump in his throat. “Is there a point to this?” he asks. “Or are you just trying to make me feel shitty?”

Jarvis keeps going like Tony hadn’t spoken. “I remember the day he died, we were all with him. My mother started sobbing. My father let the room. But Jen - his wife - she just sat there, holding his hand, kind of smiling down at him. I remember thinking it was so strange. Later, at the funeral, I cornered her, with all the capricious bluntness of a child, and asked her why she hadn’t cried yet.” There’s a crackling sound over the line as Jarvis coughs. “She said that she couldn’t cry when she was so glad. When my brother was diagnosed, they gave him two years to live. He got four. She said that for now, she was just thrilled he had made it that long, that she had had so much time with him. That she wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

Jarvis sighs. “It’s scary. To love someone in danger. Which is to say, to love anyone at all. Some types of danger are more obvious than others, but something could happen to anyone, any day. To me, it’s better to love, with the risk of loss, than to just spend your life alone.”

Tony swallows, once, twice, and realizes with frustration that there are tears in his eyes. “I’m scared,” he says, sounding like a child, he’s sure, but he doesn’t care. “I’m - so scared, Jarvis. I’ve never felt anything like this before.”

Jarvis chuckles. “Oh, my boy. Now you know how I felt, the day they placed you in my arms.”

They’re both quiet for a long moment before Tony clears his throat and speaks. “I’ll, um, I’ll think about that,” he says. “Thank you, Jarvis. For - for everything.” For being kind. For being understanding. For being a better father than Howard ever was.

“Anyway,” he continues, after a long moment, his voice still hoarse, “How are you, really? And Ana?”

“We’re both doing well,” Jarvis says. “Would prefer to hear from you more often,” and Tony rolls his eyes and lets himself relax into familiar conversation.

It’s after Jarvis finally hangs up - saying he’s got cookies in the oven, which leads to Tony demanding a care package of baked goods soon - that Tony sighs, fiddling the phone in his hands.

“Being bold is good, right?” he asks the half-built robot sitting in front of him. “Doing scary things is good?”

The robot doesn’t respond.

Tony huffs. “Right, what do you know, you’re just a dummy anyway,” he mutters, and before he can think twice, pulls up a text to send to Rhodey.

just want you to know you were right, he says. never gonna say it again. fuck. fuck fuck fuck. i’m a fucking military wife.

Then he pulls up his text stream with Steve.

hey, babe, he writes. want to come over tonight? i’ve got a pizza and a netflix queue with your name on it ;)

The three bubbles pop up only seconds after Tony hits send.

Thought you’d never ask :D

Tony grins into his sleeve.

-

After he knows, he doesn’t wait long to tell Steve.

“What the fuck?”

Steve looks like a mouse who just stuck it’s tail into the electrical socket. He’s on his feet and his hands are in the air, hair on end from how he’s been yanking it. “Did you see that, Tony?” Steve demands, whirling to Tony so he can gesticulate angrily. “That was in! You saw that, right, that was safe, that damn ump is fucking blind -”

It’s a Tuesday evening, halfway through November, and they’re watching a baseball game. A baseball game, because it turns out Steve has the loyalty of a octogenarian and will defend the Dodgers until his dying breath, and Tony likes watching him sputter. America’s dullest sport and it’s got Steve riled up so much he looks about two seconds from punching out Tony’s TV. It’s stupid and endearing and all Tony can think is -

“I love you,” Tony blurts. He doesn’t mean to say it, doesn’t mean to at all, but once it’s out, he can’t regret it. God. Steve. This infuriating little - infuriating little bastard, wriggling into Tony’s life and messing up his head and his heart and all his life’s plans. Steve wasn’t supposed to exist, not like this - he wasn’t supposed to be someone Tony could love. Yet here he is.

Steve freezes, eyes wide and mouth gaping. “Tony?” he asks, dropping the remote with a thump. On the screen behind him, the sports anchors are still arguing over the call that had got Steve in such a tizzy, but Steve looks like he’s forgotten the game even existed. “Do you - do you really mean that?”

“I don’t want to,” Tony admits. “I don’t want to mean that, I don’t want to - to love you. But I do.” He swallows hard, looks down at his hands. “I guess that’s how you know it’s real, right?”

“Tony,” he hears Steve say faintly, but he doesn’t look up. “ I-”

Tony jolts as Steve throws himself onto the couch besides Tony, making the whole thing shake. “I love you, too,” Steve says, reaching forward to cradle Tony’s face with his careful artist’s hands. “Sweetheart.”

Tony doesn’t wait for Steve to kiss him. He settles his hands on Steve’s neck and pulls him in himself, tasting Coke and pizza and the Cracker Jackers Steve insisted they needed to watch a baseball game, even though he admits he doesn’t much like them. When Tony pulls back finally, they’re both breathing hard. Steve leans his head against Tony’s, rubs his thumbs against Tony’s cheeks.

“You’re amazing,” Steve murmurs. “And I love you.”

Tony tucks himself up against the warmth of Steve’s body, blood thrumming through his veins like liquid joy.

-

Steve asks Tony to meet his Mom a few days after Thanksgiving.

It’s not like Tony didn’t know it was coming. Steve had been hinting for weeks, dropping her into conversations whenever he gets a chance. Oh, you like black olives? So does my Ma. After Tony teases Bucky about his lack of fashion sense: Hey, did I ever tell you about the time my Ma chewed out Bucky for a stain on his church slacks? Even once, memorably, when Tony was working his way up Steve’s neck with light kisses: Hey, look at that commercial, for the Sock Slider! Did I ever tell you my Ma knows the guy who invented that?

Admittedly, that strange tidbit did lead to quite an interesting story, and they ended up having sex later anyway, so it wasn’t exactly a failure. But the point is Steve’s persistency in bringing up his mother wasn’t lost on Tony, so he knew what to expect and what to prepare himself for.

And honestly, yeah, the idea of meeting Steve’s mom freaked him out at first. And at second. And at third. But eventually the idea started to melt and reform in Tony’s mind until it didn’t look quite so ridiculous. After all, Tony loves Steve. He knows this isn’t going to be a short relationship - or at least, he hopes it’s not - and that means at some point, he’d have to meet Steve’s Ma. It doesn’t mean the idea doesn’t terrify him a little bit, but Tony would do a lot for Steve. This is pretty low on that list.

So, when Steve and Tony reunited a few days after Thanksgiving and Steve started fidgeting while he popped popcorn, Tony has an idea what’s going on.

“You want Coke or ginger ale?” Tony asks, opening the fridge door.

“I want you to meet my mom,” Steve blurts.

Tony pauses, raising his eyebrow at Steve over the fridge door. “I didn’t know that was a beverage.”

Steve sighs, setting the popcorn bowl down on the counter. “Tony.”

“Relax, I’m joking,” Tony says, moving to settle a light hand on Steve’s bicep. “Hey, what are you so tense for? Of course I’ll meet your mom.”

Steve looks up at him through his eyelashes, almost bashful. “Really? I wasn’t sure you’d - well, you said you didn’t really want this to be a serious relationship -”

Tony rolls his eyes, settling his other hand on the juncture of Steve’s jaw and his neck. “Yeah. I said I didn’t want this to be a serious relationship. Not I don’t want this to be serious. Note the past tense, babe.”

“So…”

“So I’ll meet your Mom. I’m serious about this, Steve, I thought you knew that. I can’t promise it’ll be a very good meeting, or not awkward, or that she’ll like me, but of course I’ll try.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Steve says, finally reaching out to settle his hands on Tony’s hips. “She’ll love you.”

“Well, I’m glad you think so, anyway.”

“Hey,” Steve says, squeezing Tony lightly, “Which one of us knows my Ma better?”

“You,” Tony admits.

“Then believe me when I say she’s gonna love you,” Steve says. “Really, all my Ma cares about is that I’m happy, and you make me very, very happy.”

“Yeah?” Tony asks. It comes out breathier than he means it to, because Steve’s leaning in closer, nose almost brushing Tony’s own.

“Yeah,” Steve confirms, and closes the distance between them with a kiss.

The moment is broken by the shrill beeping of the microwave.

Steve’s laughing as he leans back. “Popcorn’s done.”

“That’s your job, boo bear,” Tony says, stepping out of Steve’s grasp. “Now seriously, what do you want to drink, I can’t pour, ‘Please meet my mother, Tony!’ into a glass.”

Steve sighs, but he’s smiling.

-

“Well, aren’t you just the most precious thing,” Sarah Rogers says, leaning back from the door and giving Tony a once over.

Tony tries not to fidget under her gaze.

Admittedly, he’d thought he’d have a bit more time to prepare to meet her. A week or so, at least. He should have known better. When Steve Rogers puts his mind to something, he’s going to get it done, so of course only two days after Steve asks him to meet his Ma, he’s standing in front of the door to a grungy little apartment in Brooklyn.

“Ma, come on,” Steve whines. Sarah rolls her eyes at him, but steps back so Steve and Tony can enter the apartment. It’s just like Tony imagined - small and cramped, but warmly lit, with afghans thrown over all available chairs and family photos hanging along the walls.

One in particular catches Tony’s eye, and without thinking, he steps over to examine it. “Is this -”

“Oh, god,” Steve groans.

“Is this you?” Tony demands, turning to Steve with blooming delight. “You didn’t tell me you were adorable!”

“I was scrawny,” Steve argues, sighing as Tony peers closer at the picture, until his nose is all but pressed up against the frame. “Come on, it’s not that interesting.”

“Steve, this is the cutest thing I have ever seen in my life,” Tony declares, moving onto the next photo. “Oh, god, is this Bucky? I am never letting him live this down.”

“Okay, that’s enough of that,” Steve says, moving to take Tony’s shoulders. Tony shrugs him off, intent on working his way down the line, until Steve reminds him, “You know, we’re not here to look at photos.”

“Oh, right,” Tony says, finally turning back to Sarah, who’s watching them with an amused expression from the entryway. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Rogers -”

“Oh, please, dear, call me Sarah, everyone does,” she says. “And honestly, I don’t mind at all. Showing Stevie’s friends the old photo albums is my favorite thing about meeting anyone new.”

“Ma,” Steve sighs.

“Don’t take that tone with me, mister. Here, take off your shoes, you’ll track mud all over the place. Dinner should be just about done, but in the meantime, you two go wash your hands - I trust you remember where the bathroom is?”

“Of course I do, Ma.”

“Just wanted to check, seeing as you never come home and all.”

“Ma,” Steve groans, but with a shake of her head, Sarah is off, disappearing into the kitchen, from which a warm, spicy smell is wafting.

“Steve,” Tony says seriously, “I’m leaving you.”

Steve startles. “What -” he starts, but he’s cut off by Tony before he can finish.

“For your mother,” Tony says. “I think I’m in love with her.”

There’s the sound of something clanging and then the loud voice of Sarah Rogers, yelling, “Oh, shit!” from the kitchen.

“Scratch that,” Tony says. “Definitely in love with her.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “You okay, Ma?” Steve calls.

“I’m fine!” she yells back. “I don’t hear the sink running, have you washed your hands?”

“Not yet, Ma!”

“Well, then, hurry up, I know where those things have been and I don’t need that at my dinner table!”  
  


“Bathroom’s this way,” Steve sighs, as Tony tries to muffle laughter.

The whole night turns out in a similar fashion. Sarah is an incredible woman - as Tony had expected, having single-handedly raised someone like Steve - who spends half the night teasing Steve and the other half not-so-subtly interrogating Tony. It’s a bit intimidating, at first, until Sarah asks him his favorite color, and, when he says it’s red, announces to Steve that she’s sorry but he has to dump Tony now - red and blue are just too different.

He realizes it’s all more of a game to get to know him, at that point, and relaxes a lot more.

They spend a while in the kitchen, lingering over Irish stew and then, later, glasses of sparkling water (“Last time I checked, you boys aren’t twenty-one,” she’d told Steve sternly when she removed a chilled bottle of wine from the fridge, poured a single glass, and then corked it again). But eventually, they drain their cups, and Sarah moves them into the living room, where she’s laid out half a dozen thick photo albums.

Steve bears Tony’s cooing with remarkable fortitude, though he does blush quite scarlet when Sarah pulls out a polaroid of a naked four-year-old Steve waving his butt at the camera.

“He was a precocious boy,” Sarah tells Tony, “When he wasn’t sick.”

“Was he sick a lot?” Tony asks curiously, turning to face Steve. Steve’s not watching him, though - he looks almost embarrassed, looking down at his hands.

“Well, he was a - small child. Had a lot of health problems. Thankfully he outgrew them and then some, and now he’s basically free of them. Not the asthma, though.”

“It’s not serious,” Steve hurries to assure Tony. “It’s just occasionally when I’m around cats.”

“Natasha has a cat,” Tony says.

“Well, yeah, but it’s not a big deal.”

“Steve, have you been hiding asthma attacks from me?”

“No!” Steve exclaims. Tony raises his eyebrows. “Well, maybe. Just one or two, though!”

“What did you do, run into the other room when you started wheezing?”

Steve ducks his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I text Bucky, actually,” he says. “We have a code word. He’d call me and then I’d disappear.”

Tony rolls his eyes, trying to bite back a smile. “You have a code word for when there’s a cat around and you’re getting a secret asthma attack.”

“No, not specifically for that,” Steve clarifies. “For life in general. Just, like, get me out of this situation kind of thing.”

“Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” Tony says.

“Thanks for the tone of surprise.”

“Rhodey and I should come up with one,” Tony continues. “Oooh! Oooh! Beam me up, Rhodey! It’s perfect.”

“You’re such a nerd,” Steve says fondly, leaning into press a kiss to Tony’s lips. It’s chaste at first, but Tony is leaning forward to deepen it when there’s the sound of someone clearing their throat, and they break apart hastily.

“I’m still right here, boys,” Sarah says dryly.

“Sorry, Ma,” Steve says, blushing like a rose. “Uh, I think we just sort of -”

“Forgot I was here?”

“Got caught up in the moment,” Tony corrects.

“Yeah, yeah, young love, I get it. Though I hope you boys realize there won’t be any hanky panky going on in this house tonight. Tony, sweetheart, you’re lovely, but you’re sleeping on the couch.”

Steve groans, slumping back into the cushions. “Why did I think this was a good idea?” he asks the ceiling.

Sarah leans over Tony to pat Steve gently on the knee. “I have no idea, sweetheart,” she says. “No idea.”

-

Steve finds the photos on a Wednesday.

They’re at Tony’s apartment; they’ve just had several rounds of mind-blisteringly hot sex, including one in the shower, and Tony is in the kitchen rifling through the drawers for the Chinese takeout menu. Steve’s in Tony’s room, getting dressed.

“Hey,” Steve calls out the open door, “I’m out of clean underwear here. Can I borrow a pair of yours?”

“Sure,” Tony yells back. “But only if you’ll do my laundry for me tomorrow.”

Tony can’t see him, but he knows Steve is rolling his eyes. “You’re so lazy,” he says, but his tone is soft and light like he’s smiling. Tony grins, finally locating the Chinese menu.

“So,” he says, “Do we want dumplings tonight, or rangoons? I gotta say I was feeling dumplings, but -”

He turns, pausing when he sees Steve standing in the doorway to his room, something small in his hand. He’s still wearing his towel; his expression is scarily blank.

“Steve?” Tony asks nervously. “What - are you okay?”

“Tony,” Steve says, voice low, “What the hell is this?”

He turns the object in his hands. It’s a Polaroid; it’s dark, too dark to be able to distinguish from here, but still Tony’s blood goes cold. He knows what that is. God, why hadn’t he hid it somewhere better than his goddamn underwear drawer?  
  


“It’s nothing,” Tony says, hurrying forward to snatch it from Steve’s hand. Steve lets him, but his expression doesn’t change. “It’s just - it’s old, it’s nothing, why don’t we order the Chinese now -”

“Tony,” Steve says, hand closing lightly around Tony’s wrist when he tries to brush past him, back into the bedroom. His touch is delicate, easy to break, but still Tony’s throat tightens up. “Why is there a picture of your father molesting you?”

Tony swallows hard. “That’s not my father,” he says hoarsely. “It’s his business partner. Old business partner. Obadiah Stane. He’s dead now.”

“Did your father know about this?” Steve asks. His voice is still cold and hard, and Tony wishes he knew what was going on in Steve’s head. Is he mad Tony didn’t tell him? He couldn’t be, that would be - that would be unfair, wouldn’t it? How can Tony be expected to bring that shit up into conversation, how could - but then, this is Steve. Lord knows he’s been vulnerable with Tony, shared with him the most horrible things about his past. Oh, god, he’s probably mad.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Tony says. “I really am, Steve, I - I get it, you deserved to know -”

“Did your father know about this?” Steve asks again, voice harsher this time.

Tony presses his eyes closed. “Yes,” he whispers.

A moment later, the warm pressure of Steve’s hand on Tony’s wrist is gone. Tony opens his eyes, but Steve is gone; there’s a clanging sound in Tony’s room, like Steve is hastily throwing on clothes.

“Please, Steve,” Tony says, stepping inside the room. “I said I was sorry, I’m -”

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” Steve fumes, angrily yanking a t-shirt on over his head. “I’m going to fucking - that bastard, how dare he let him touch you -”

Tony blinks, taken aback. “Steve -” he starts, but Steve just turns away, pulling on his discarded combat boots. “What are you -”

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” Steve says again, turning to move out the door. But Tony’s blocking the way. “Please move,” he says, clenching his fists by his sides.

“No,” Tony says. With anyone else it’d be a gamble, opposing them when they’re angry like this, but this is Steve. Of course he isn’t going to hurt Tony.

Steve presses his eyes closed for just a moment. “Tony,” he says, his voice cracking on the name. “Please move.”

“No,” Tony says again, more confidently this time. He steps forward, settling a hand on Steve’s neck. Steve’s breath leaves him in a shudder. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Tony,” Steve says. He shakes his head, swallows hard. Up this close, Tony can see the tears shining on his eyelashes. All this, just for Tony? “Please. I need to - I need to do this.”

“You’re not going to hurt him,” Tony says, settling his other hand on Steve’s jaw. “You’re not going to talk to him and you’re not going to see him and you’re not going to touch him. You know why? Because I need you here.”

Steve’s eyelashes flutter open. His eyes are bright blue and pained.

“He hurt you,” Steve says. “He let someone hurt you. I can’t allow that.”

“Not anymore,” Tony agrees. “Nobody can hurt me anymore. But it was in the past, Steve, wasn’t it? It’s over, now. Now, I need you here.”

Steve’s fingers are unclenching at his sides. One hand comes up to rest, almost tentatively, on Tony’s hip. “Nobody should get to hurt you like that,” Steve croaks.

“Okay,” Tony says. “Nobody gets to hurt me like that. Not anymore.” He rubs his thumb over Steve’s cheek, and sighs when Steve splays a hand across the small of his back, pulling him close. “You stay with me now, okay? You stay with me.”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes, leaning his forehead against Tony’s. “I stay with you. And I make sure nobody can hurt you again.”

Tony’s breath hitches in his throat, and he closes his eyes. “Okay,” he says shakily. “Okay.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Steve says, always too perceptive. His voice is soft like it always is when he’s talking to Tony, like a fuzzy blanket, warm water on cold skin. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’ve got you, honey. You’re going to be okay, I’m right here -”

Tony can’t stop the tears from falling, then, and he tucks his face into Steve’s neck to hide them against the fabric of his shirt. It quickly grows wet under the onslaught of his tears, but Steve just pulls him close and rubs his back and presses kisses all over the top of his head.

“I’m sorry, I’m here,” Steve says, over and over again. “I’m here now, I’m here, Tony, you’re not alone.”

“I love you,” Tony croaks, when finally he manages to stop crying. The Polaroid is still a heavy weight in his back pocket, but less heavy than it used to be.

“I love you, too,” Steve murmurs, pressing a kiss to Tony’s temple. “So much. You have no idea how much.”

Tony holds on for dear life.

-

(Tony should have known he wouldn’t get off that easy. The next morning, he wakes up to the smell of French toast, and Steve standing in the doorway, a plate in hand.

“Hey,” he says, “Good morning, how are you -”

“What do you want to know?” Tony asks bluntly. It’s always been better to rip off the bandaid, he thinks. Less misplaced hope, less disappointment.

Steve sighs, setting the plate down on top of the dresser. “I don’t - you don’t need to tell me anything,” he says.

Tony already knew that. “But what do you want to know?” he asks again.

Steve sighs again, coming to sit beside Tony on the bed. Tony watches his profile, waits for him to speak.

“What happened?” is what he eventually settles on, the vaguest of questions.

Some part of Tony wants to say, What didn’t happen? Get snappy and rough and defensive. But he knows it would upset Steve, and despite himself, he doesn’t want to do that. That’s the last thing he wants to do.

“My dad’s business partner,” Tony says, picking at the comforter. “He was around a lot. Practically lived with us, really, more like an uncle than anything. And, uh - well, you saw the photos. Happened for a while, up until I left for boarding school, and then I wasn’t convenient enough for him or something, I guess.”

Steve says silent, but his hand finds his way to Tony’s knee, a settling weight. Tony takes a deep breath, keeps going. “Anyway, he died when I was seventeen. Plane crash. But he didn’t have a family, so Howard inherited his estate. I thought - I remembered he had taken photos. It was a - one specific day, he had -” Tony closes his eyes and focuses on breathing, the weight of Steve’s hand on his skin. “Anyway, I went over to his house and poked through his things. Found the Polaroids in his bedroom. And I figured they were good to have.”

“Does Howard know you have these?” Steve asks quietly.

Tony nods. “I gave one to him,” he says. “Wanted him to - I don’t know. I was angry at the time. But it’s good leverage, so.”

Steve nods, jaw working. “Can I hug you?” he blurts suddenly.

“Yeah,” Tony rasps, surprised. “Yeah, of course you can -”

Steve all but lunges forward to pull Tony into his arms, and Tony lets him, wrapping his arms around him in turn. “I’m so, so sorry I wasn’t there to protect you,” Steve whispers against Tony’s neck “But I’m here now.”

“I know,” Tony says. Tentatively, he runs a hand down Steve’s back, and is gratified by the way Steve relaxes into him. “I know, big guy, don’t worry.”

By the time they get around to breakfast, the French toast has gone cold.)

-

Rhodey gives Tony his Christmas present the last day of fall term.

Tony is bleary-eyed and tired, huddled on the couch with a steaming mug of coffee. Steve’s in the shower; Rhodey, irritatingly awake, is darting around the kitchen, gathering the last few things he needs before he heads off to his early morning flight.

“Okay, keys, phone, jacket -“ Rhodey glances around. “Oh, almost forgot -“

He heads back into his bedroom, and emerges a few seconds later holding an ugly, garish, red and green package.

Rhodey smirks at him. “Merry Christmas,” he says, tossing it down onto Tony’s lap. Tony sets down his mug, picking up the package to shake it.

“Hmm,” he says, “Is it a computer? A million dollars?”

Rhodey smacks him lightly on the back of the head. “Just open it, dumbass.”

Tony opens the package deliberately slowly, just to watch the way it makes Rhodey bristle. It’s only after he’s torn off the paper completely that he realizes it’s clothing - garishly hot pink and soft.

“Did you get your presents mixed up?” Tony asks, and Rhodey rolls his eyes.

“Just look at it,” he says, and Tony unfolds it, wondering what the hell Rhodey’s getting at -

“Oh,” he says, a slow grin spreading on his face. “Oh, honeybear.”

It’s a pullover sweatshirt, just Tony’s size, and printed on the front in block, hot-pink camo is ARMY WIFE.

“Yeah, I thought you’d like that,” Rhodey grins. “All right, I really have to go, but tell Steve Merry Christmas from me, all right?” He ruffles Tony’s hear, briefly, and smiles wider when Tony makes a protesting noise and twists away from the touch. “See you in January.”

“See ya,” Tony says, as Rhodey grabs his bags from the floor. “Say hi to Mama Rhodes for me!” he calls after Rhodey. He catches just a glimpse of Rhodey’s thumbs up before the door swings shut behind him.

When Steve emerges from the shower five minutes later, Tony’s still sitting on the couch, nursing his cup of coffee, except now, he’s wearing his new sweatshirt. Steve, clad only in a towel slung low over his hips, pauses when he sees him.

“Where’d you get that?” he asks.

“Sourpatch says Merry Christmas.”

Steve is - God, he’s practically beaming at him, just because Tony’s wearing a stupid sweatshirt. “I like it,” Steve says, finally coming closer. He drops his towel so he can climb onto the couch and straddle Tony’s lap. Tony manages to focus just enough to set his coffee cup down on the side table before settling his hands on Steve’s hips.

“Yeah?” Tony asks breathily.

“Yeah,” Steve confirms, fingering the hem of Tony’s sweatshirt even as he bends to suck a kiss into the hollow of Tony’s throat. Tony tips his head back to give Steve better access, groaning as Steve’s hands slip under his shirt, drifting feather light over his stomach -

“Hey, Tony, I forgot my - oh fuck!”

There’s a smacking sound as Rhodey runs straight into a wall, followed by a heavy thump as Steve, blushing fire engine red, falls back off Tony’s lap and onto the floor.

Tony laughs until his stomach burns.

-

The worst thing about time, Tony thinks, is how it warps. Good days run over and through you before you can do much but miss them, but bad days stretch like monsoon floods, dark and deep and unyielding.

Winter break passes in a blur of hugs and homemade meals and purple reindeer wrapping paper crumpled over the floor, and then January follows in much the same fashion. At midnight on the first day of the year, Steve kisses Tony chastely on his ratty couch while Sarah blows a party horn beside them. Then Tony blinks, and they’re back in campus, and Steve is showing Tony how to make a snow angel with crisp edges. And he blinks again, and classes have started, and he blinks again, and Steve is asking him what he’d like to do for Valentines Day next week, he heard a new Italian place opened up by Natasha’s, or would Tony rather do Chinese?

The whole month feels rather like a montage in a movie, the sort of thing you only vaguely remember afterwards, blinking back on it in confusion: did that really happen? Did I really have that much easy happiness packed into one little month, or am I just misremembering? Is it all fake, is the world fake, is this a Matrix simulation, an evil demon problem come to life?

They end up eating at home on Valentine’s Day. Steve waits to long to book a place, insistent on getting Tony’s opinion, when Tony honestly couldn’t care less. Honestly, he thinks he might prefer this - Steve in a nice outfit, warm food and candles on their little kitchen countertop, a bedroom only a few feet away.

“I’m really glad I met you, Tony,” Steve says at one point, halfway through the night, and Tony almost chokes on his meatball.

He swallows hard, feeling the half-chewed mass force its way down his esophagus, and he doesn’t care, because Steve is here. “So am I,” he says, and it’s so inadequate - he’s definitely the Han Solo in this relationship - but Steve beams at him anyway and bumps their toes together under the table, like that’s all he could possibly want.

And Tony doesn’t know what it is, but there’s something about tonight makes him feel almost fearless. Steve’s here, and he’s smiling in that soft way of his, and he loves Tony loudly, like he wants the whole world to hear.

-

“Don’t go,” Tony says abruptly, three weeks before Steve is set to deploy.

It’s the end of February. The snow has begun to thaw, the false spring that comes before the real warm weather, and normally it’d be a welcome reprieve - a week away from the cold before it comes back with a vengeance.

For Tony, though, it’s just an unpleasant reminder of the passage of time. Tony had always thought it’d take him turning thirty, or forty for him to start valuing individual days, but it turns out all it took was Steve and his stupid deployment date. March 12th. Every day that passes is a day closer to that deadline, and Tony feels like digging his heels in, but the Father Time doesn’t seem very sympathetic to his situation.

Steve pauses, knife stilling in the jar of mustard. “Sorry?”

“Don’t go,” Tony repeats. He hadn’t been planning on saying it - hadn’t been planning on ever bringing up the topic, let alone bringing it up today - but now that he’s said it, he can’t hold it back.

“Go where?” Steve’s resumed making his sandwich, like if he fakes confusion long enough Tony will give up and drop the topic.

“You know what I mean,” Tony accuses.

Steve sighs, setting down the knife. “You knew,” he says. “When we started dating, you knew that I was enlisting. I never made that a secret.”

“And I never said I liked it,” Tony argues. “I just don’t - I don’t understand it. Why you’re doing this. Why you feel the need to - to put your life on hold for four years just to - I mean, what is the point?”

“It’s something I feel called to do,” Steve says. The tone of his voice makes this feel like a speech, like the memorized explanations missionaries give to the people they’re trying to recruit. “At least try to see this from my perspective. I’m going to be serving my country. That’s important.”

“Your country doesn’t need you,” Tony snaps, hating the desperate tears he can feel welling in his eyes. God, he’s not upset, he’s angry. He’s angry, body, get on board - except his body has taken his desperation and longing and turned it into this. “It doesn’t need another soldier! But I do! I need you, okay, Steve? So why the hell are you leaving?”  
  
Steve sighs. “Because I need to do it,” he says. “The army might not need me, but I need it. I need to do this, Tony. I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t.”

“Why?” Tony croaks. “Your stupid morals?”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “My stupid morals.”

Tony shakes his head, blinking hard. “That’s - stupid.”

“Maybe,” Steve says. “But it’s true.”

“I hate your morals.” Tony swallows hard. “I really - hate them.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, taking a step towards Tony. “Sometimes I do too.”

Tony laughs wetly, and Steve pulls him into his arms, his hands gentle on Tony’s back. “No, you don’t,” Tony counters.

“No,” Steve agrees. “I don’t.”

-

The day Steve ships out, Tony wakes up at three in the morning.

Above him, faint shadows dance on the ceiling like misshapen moths; Tony’s not surprised when he glances over the clock and its red numbers inform him it’s far too early to be awake. He knows now that he’s up, he won’t be able to go back to sleep.

Sprawled beside Tony in his slightly-too-small bed, Steve sleeps with his mouth hanging open, a spot of drool dampening his pillowcase. One hand is tucked beneath his pillow, the other thrown over Tony’s chest; carefully, Tony strokes his fingers over the back of Steve’s hand, then up his forearm, a feather-light touch just enough to inspire goosebumps without waking.

The bedroom is dark, lit only by the yellow-orange light from the streetlamps bleeding through the thin shower curtain Tony’s hung over the window. The soft light, the way Steve’s eyelashes are splayed across his cheekbones, the way his hand cups his jaw - it makes him look suddenly younger, almost childish. Surely too young to be going to war.

As Tony watches, Steve shifts, rubbing his forehead against his pillow. “Tony?” he mumbles, tightening his grip on Tony’s waist.

“I’m right here,” Tony manages, nestling closer to Steve. “Go back to sleep.”

Steve hums, and shifts again. A moment later his breaths fall back into their slow sleeping rhythm.

But Tony can’t sleep. He can’t relax, knowing Steve will be gone in only a few hours. Gone - too far for Tony to see or hear or touch or taste. Gone to a place he might not come back from.

Instead, he lays in the darkness, stroking slowly up and down Steve’s side. Hours drip through the hourglass, and the sun edges over the horizon, like a molasses flood, slowly spreading color across the sky. By the time it’s sharp enough to wake Steve, it’s almost seven in the morning. Two and a half hours left.

“Morning, babe,” Steve mumbles when he wakes, nestling his face in the crook of Tony’s neck. He presses a kiss to his shoulder, his neck, right below his ear, but Tony can’t focus on it or take any sort of pleasure in the sensation, not when he knows it’s so temporary. Not when he knows he won’t get to feel this tonight, or tomorrow, or the day after that, the week after that, the month after that.

“Want breakfast?” Tony says, trying to work around the tightness in his voice. Steve stills against Tony, and Tony uses the opportunity to break out of his grip, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “I’m making coffee.”

He ducks away before Steve can say anything, throwing on one of Steve’s shirts and heading out to the kitchen. He’s shaking, he realizes as he tries to get the coffee grounds into the pot. He clenches his fists harder and tries not to feel.

“Hey,” someone says softly behind him, and it’s only Steve’s infuriating habit of doing this that keeps Tony from startling. “Hey, sweetheart, it’s going to be okay.”

“Don’t,” Tony says harshly - too harshly, too mean for this, a last morning, a last bittersweet blue moment before Steve ships off to war. He can’t help it, though. It bubbles out of him, like sadness or math, like his body is producing too much to hold it all in.

Steve does quiet, but a moment later, his hands slip over Tony’s hips, until he’s nestled up behind him, his chin over Tony’s shoulder. He doesn’t speak, just rubs his hands up and down Tony’s sides until slowly the muscles start to unclench and he feels himself sinking back into Steve.

Finally, Steve pulls back. The coffee is done, now, but he doesn’t pay it any mind, turning Tony in his arms so they’re face to face. “There you are,” he says softly, and Tony doesn’t think before leaning in to kiss him. He tastes like morning breath - they probably both taste like morning breath - but there are far worse things in the world.

“Let’s make breakfast,” Steve says when he pulls back. He doesn’t say anything else, but Tony imagines he can hear it anyway: let’s pretend, for the next two hours, that this is just any other morning.

So Tony cuts fruit while Steve makes pancakes, and they eat in front of the TV, pressed together, hip to shoulder. Tony can’t stomach much, but Steve eats his leftovers for him. They shower together, dress together, exchanging lazy kisses under the hot water and in the shivering cold of Tony’s room. Tony puts on his usual jeans and t-shirt. Steve puts on his fatigues.

And then they go to the airport.

Sarah had said her goodbyes to Steve the day before, after they’d had dinner at her house, so it’s just Tony accompanying Steve. Bucky is shipping out too, of course, but Natasha is bringing him, and so they’re alone in the car, and the parking lot, and in the long walk to find Steve’s gate. The whole time, Tony feels the anxiety and hurt and pain building in his stomach like an grenade waiting to explode. Stay here, Tony thinks, every time he glances over at Steve. Stay here and be with me.

But he can’t. That’s not who he is.

Bucky and Natasha are already there when Steve and Tony arrive. In fact, most of the platoon is. The others are shipping out from different airports, including Steve’s commanding officer, Peggy Carter. Their boxes of personal supplies had been sent out several days before, so all any of them have now is their military-issued duffel bags, filled with last-minute items they couldn’t pack in advance.

Bucky waves when he spots Steve, breaking away from the group he’s chatting with to come over and give Steve a back-clapping hug. “Ready?” he asks.

“As I’ll ever be,” Steve says with a grin. Both Bucky and Steve seem to have a bubble of nervous energy about them; it’s a strange contrast to Tony and Natasha’s reserved quiet.

“Boarding in ten,” Bucky says, giving Steve one last clap on the shoulder. “Morita’ll make the call. I’ll see you on the plane.”

Then, with a smile, he’s off, Natasha still drifting behind his shoulder. As Tony watches, Bucky wraps an arm around her waist, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek.

Tony swallows hard, turning back to Steve. “Feeling okay?” he manages around the lump in his throat.

“Yeah,” Steve says, “I think so. How do I look?”

Tony reaches forward to smooth the fabric of his fatigues with shaking fingers. “Like a soldier,” he says. He can’t quite bring himself to tear his hands away.

“Hey,” Steve says gently, pressing forward to wrap his hands around Tony’s waist. “Everything is going to be fine. I’ll call you every week, and I’ll send letters every day. And you’re going to go on having your awesome, crazy college life without little old me to drag you down.”

Tony swallows hard against the lump in his throat, bringing a hand up to cup Steve’s jaw. “Right,” he croaks. “No more Mr. Tightass holding me back.”

Steve grins. “Exactly,” he says. “The time will pass before you know it. You’ll see.”

Tony leans forward to bury his head in Steve’s neck, breathing in his unique smell. It’ll be months before he smells this again. He tells himself to enjoy it.

But the minutes bleed away and suddenly someone’s calling, “All right, soldiers, time to go!” There’s a jumble of noise as man stand from chairs, throwing duffels over the shoulders and kissing their wives and kids goodbye.

With a sniffle, Tony pulls back from Steve so he can look him in the eye. “I love you,” he reminds him.

“I love you more.”

Tony shakes his head, leaning up to press one last kiss to Steve’s lips. He tastes salt from his own tears. “Come home to me,” he whispers.

Then he steps back.

And he watches Steve go.

-

The apartment is quiet when Tony gets home.

Rhodey is gone - out for the weekend, a training exercise with the ROTC. In his place, there is aching silence, loneliness like a cold ghost. Nature abhors a vacuum, and in this situation has seen fit to fill the missing spots in Tony’s life with sadnesses, Tony’s oldest, almost-forgotten friends.

A bag of flour is still sitting out on the kitchen counter, forgotten in the morning clean up. Like an automaton, Tony moves to put it away, but when he picks it up, flour starts pouring like sand from an hourglass out of a tiny hole in it’s bottom corner. Must have gotten punctured by a fork.

For a long moment, Tony just watches it go. It looks like dust, like impossibly fine snow, settling in a little pile on the ground. It gathers into a little triangle, until the weight of falling flour gets to be too much and the whole thing crumples in on itself, flattening out under Tony’s gaze.

Tony looks at the bag of flour in his hand, and suddenly he is indescribably furious. How dare the universe do this to him? What has he done to deserve this, these empty holes in his life and this hole in the goddamn flour bag, this mess on the floor of his kitchen, the mess of his life, the way everything is suddenly falling apart?

Tony doesn’t think; he chucks the bag at the nearest cabinet. It explodes in a dusty supernova, coating the entire kitchen in white. Tony closes his eyes, falls to his knees. When he opens them again, he feels like he’s been transported to another world; it’s as though a dust storm has hit, leaving everything different in its wake. A domestic dream of a desert. Is this what it’s like in Iraq?

Tony kneels alone on the kitchen floor, and cries the flour wet with his tears.

-

The days - pass. At first it feels insurmountable, like the absence of Steve is a wound no balm can heal, but things do go on. Rhodey arrives home on Monday, and immediately decides to dedicate all his time and attention to Tony.

“Rhodey,” Tony says, for what feels like the fifteenth time in the last hour, “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” Rhodey asks, innocence all the way through. “I’m just studying, Tones.”

“You’re not,” Tony snaps, throwing down his pen and turning in his chair so he can glare at Rhodey. Rhodey’s got his physics textbook open in front of him and a pencil in one hand, but he’s still on the same page he was ten minutes ago. “You’re watching me. I don’t need a babysitter, Rhodes.”

“You know pulling out the last name is a lot less effective when it’s only one letter different from my nickname,” Rhodey points out. Tony just glares.

Rhodey sighs, slumping back into his chair. “I’m just worried about you,” he says. His eyes are wide and sincere, and even though he and Steve couldn’t look more different, he’s got the air of earnestness about him that Tony’s learned to associate with Steve.

The thought hurts more than Tony would have expected.

“I’m fine,” Tony says, turning back to his notebook. “Honestly, Rhodey, it’s not like I didn’t know this was coming. I can take care of myself.”

“But you don’t have to,” Rhodey says. Tony doesn’t respond, tapping the end of his pen against the paper and trying to swallow past the lump in his throat. “Tony. You’re not alone in this. You know that, right?”

Tony blinks hard. “I know,” he says, voice coming out scratchy and uneven. He swallows again, rubs at his chest, like that will make the aching emptiness hanging beside his lungs dissipate. “I know,” he says again, steadier this time.

“Okay,” Rhodey says after a moment. Tony can still feel the heat of his gaze on the back of Tony’s neck, but can’t turn to tell him off, not without Rhodey seeing the splotchy redness around his eyes. “As long as you know that.”

They resume their homework in silence.

-

A week and a half after Steve leaves, Tony gets to call him for the first time.

They’ve been designated a specific date and time by Army: Wednesday afternoons, nine p.m. Steve’s time, two pm in Boston. Ostensibly, the date and time should remain the same every week - unless, of course, there’s a communications blackout or a technological problem, a conflict with a mission or any number of other things that could leave Tony sitting on a couch next to his phone all afternoon, waiting for a call that won’t come.

He waits anxiously by his phone all morning, not even bothering to try to go to class. Sure, they said two p.m., but what if he calls early? What if something gets mixed around? If Tony misses his call, he won’t know what to do with himself.

But the phone rings at two on the dot. “Hey,” Tony says breathlessly.

“Hi,” Steve says, and, God, Tony can almost hear the smile in his voice. “It’s good to hear your voice.”

“Right back at you,” Tony grins. “So, how was your week?”

They fill each other in: Steve talking about the plane ride over, what the barracks are like, the kids he’s met around base. Tony feels very dull in comparison, but he still updates Steve on how the experiments are running in the lab, and how Natasha is doing with Bucky gone.

“And you?” Steve prompts, after Tony finishes. “How are you doing with me gone?”

Tony considers making a smart-ass comment - I’m fine, Rogers, you’re not that big a part of my life, you know - but instead he’s just honest. “I miss you. I miss you a lot. I - more than I expected I would, to be honest.” The phone line is silent. Tony can hear his own heartbeat in his ears, can feel it pulsing behind his eyes. “But, you know. I’ll see you soon, right?”

“Yeah,” Steve says hoarsely. “Yeah, you’ll see me soon, sweetheart.”

“Good.” Tony swallows hard, wiping at his nose so Steve won’t hear him sniff. “Um, you must be running out of time now, yeah?”

“Just about,” Steve agrees. “But, hey, I’ll talk to you this time next week, right?”

“Right.”

“And I’ll write you,” Steve continues. “A letter. I know it’s kind of old-fashioned, and it won’t get there until after I call anyway, but -”

“No,” Tony interrupts quietly. “It’s - sweet. I’d really - I’d really appreciate it. If you did that.”

“Okay,” Steve says softly. “Then I will. You don’t have to, but you can write me too, okay?”

“Of course I’m going to write you.”

“Good.” The line crackles for a moment before there’s a rough voice in the background, syllables too jumbled to make out. “I’ve got to go,” Steve says regretfully, and Tony’s heart clenches in his chest.

“I love you,” he says. “I love you so much, Steve.”

“I love you too, sweetheart,” Steve says. “And I’ll call you next week.”

There’s a click, ane the line goes dead.

For a long moment afterwards, Tony just stares at the blank screen of his phone. Where is Steve now? How long does it take him to walk away from a phone, to leave the relative safety of headquarters, to go on patrol? What has happened in the fifteen, twenty, thirty seconds since he hung up the phone? At least when Tony’s talking to him, he knows he’s safe; but the other 167 hours of the week are just as much a mystery as ever.

Tony closes his eyes, breathes deep. Seven days, he thinks. Just seven more days.

-

Time has never passed so slowly as it does when Steve is away.

He feels like his life is in a perpetual waiting game, like a paper chain dropping into the distance that never ends, just pauses, giving him a moment’s reprieve before dropping him back in, as though to make sure he remembers how life could be. Wednesdays quickly become both the highlight and lowlight of his week - talking with Steve is always the best, but the hour after it is usually much darker. Because after he gets to hear Steve talk about his friends in the unit - his commander, Peggy, a pararescue he met on base named Sam, a man everyone just calls ‘Dum-Dum’ - his apartment and bedroom just feels all the more quiet. He lays in bed, and stares at the ceiling, and tries to think away the knot in his chest, and never really succeeds.

But he does have his distractions. Engineering is the main one: he throws himself into his classes and projects with a fervor he’s never shown before, and is rewarded with improvements at an amazing speed. More than that, though, he’s rewarded by his brain: because sometimes, when Tony’s particularly sleep-deprived, or particularly focused on a project, everything else will fall out of his mind. In those moments, he doesn’t have a father or best friend or even a boyfriend; he just is. He’s not happy, but he’s not sad either, and it becomes a welcome respite from the tedium of daily life that he falls into gladly.

“I’m worried about you,” Rhodey says, once, in April. “You haven’t been out of the lab in weeks.”

“Just preparing for finals,” Tony says, even though both he and Rhodey know he’ll ace them without studying. He takes the hint, though, and starts spending a bit more time with Rhodey, with their other friends; usually, he sacrifices sleep instead of lab time.

When summer rolls around, Tony doesn’t want to go home and sit in that big empty mansion, so he enrolls for classes instead. Most of them are useless, not part of his major or anything he’d have to apply to his life, but that’s fine by him. It’s distracting. It keeps his mind as clear as it can be. Until Wednesday comes around again. And the cycle starts all over.

-

Being without Steve any day kind of sucks, but being without him on a holiday - well, that’s really shit.

And today’s not a holiday, per say. It’s just that it’s Tony’s birthday, and all his friends have forgotten, and all he can think is that he wishes Steve were here to make it better.

But, as Tony reminds himself repeatedly, Steve’s not. Steve’s in Afghanistan, saving lives and serving their country. It’s fine. Tony’s fine.

He gets up earlier than usual, stumbling out to the kitchen to find Rhodey already gone for ROTC training, his textbooks scattered over the counter. Tony eats Rhodey’s leftover dinner from the night before, then heads off to the mechanics labs to spend the morning doing what he loves most: fucking with tech.

It’s mid-afternoon by the time he gets a text from Rhodey. hey tones I need your help, meet me on the quad in ten?

everything okay? Tony asks.

eight minutes, is all Rhodey replies.

Part of Tony is tempted to disobey purely out of spite, but it’s a rare occurrence for Rhodey to ask him for help and, honestly, Tony’s a little bit worried. So he packs up the project he’d been working on - nothing important, anyway, nothing that can’t wait a few days - and heads out for the quad.

When Tony steps out of the mechanics building, for a moment he’s blinded by the sheer bright sunlight. Beautiful day, Tony thinks, and then his vision focuses, and he’s able to see what’s in front of him.

“Oh, I’m going to murder you,” Tony says, even as he barrels forward. “You piece of shit, you -“

He throws his arms around Steve’s neck, and Steve grabs him by the waist, hoisting him into the air. Tony wraps his legs around Steve’s hips and buries his face in Steve’s neck and holds on for dear life.

“Hi,” Steve says into Tony’s hair, and Tony chokes out a noise that’s half-laugh, half-sob.

“Hi,” he manages. God, Steve’s here, Steve’s here, and Tony’s missed him so much - his stupid soft hair and warm arms and the way he smells like sand and oil, the smell of the Army he hasn’t been able to get off since he enlisted.

“I missed you, too,” Steve says, and Tony laughs, pressing his grin into Steve’s jaw, his cheek, as he drags himself up just enough to kiss him.

It’s chaste, and short, because Tony’s heart is beating too fast and he’s smiling too hard to keep it up for long, but it doesn’t matter. As Tony pulls back, eyes only for Steve, he dimly registers the sound of clapping all around them: the audience of the quad, tuned in to the show.

“You’ve lost weight,” Steve observes, hand sliding up Tony’s back to rest over his ribs. “Have you not been eating?”

Tony rolls his eyes, but he can’t stop smiling. “Mother Rogers, back in action already. Put me down.” He smacks at Steve’s shoulder until he obeys, then tucks himself under Steve’s arm just as soon as he’s back on solid ground. “It’s really good to see you,” he mumbles into Steve’s chest. Tony doesn’t think he imagines the way Steve’s arms tighten around him, and he definitely doesn’t imagine the featherlight kiss Steve presses to the crown of his head.

“It’s good to see you too,” Steve says. He laughs, light as a wind chime. “God, that’s not a strong enough word. It’s - it’s so good to see you.”

Tony doesn’t say anything, just nestles closer. “How long do you have?” he asks quietly. Some part of his mind says not to mention it - that if he doesn’t bring it up, if Steve doesn’t hear him, if Steve doesn’t respond, then it means that Steve can stay forever. But a bigger part of him wants to know.

Steve sighs, his breath ruffling Tony’s hair. “Five days,” he says regretfully. “I would stay longer, but I want to save up some time for Christmas -“

“Shh,” Tony shushes him, pulling back enough to see Steve’s face. “This is perfect. Thank you.”

Steve’s brow creases as he looks down at Tony, expression impossibly sad. “I wish I didn’t have to spend so much time away from you,” he murmurs. “I wish -“

“Three and a half more years, right?” Tony interrupts. “Less than that, now. And then we can be together all the time.”

“You don’t deserve waiting.”

Tony thinks that’s probably up for debate, but he’s not going to argue with Steve about it. “I don’t care what I deserve,” he says. “I want you. You some of the time is better than anyone else all of the time.”

Steve sighs, again, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “I love you,” he says, and Tony tilts his head back so Steve can duck and kiss him, one more time.

“I love you, too,” Tony murmurs when he pulls back. Then, even though he doesn’t want to let Steve go for a second, he steps back, clearing his throat. “As much as I’d like to continue this love-fest, we’re making something of a scene,” he says, “and I know you don’t love PDA. Want to head back to the apartment? We got a new coffee table. You’ll love it.”

Steve grins. “I thought you’d never ask.”

From behind Tony, someone coughs, loudly and deliberately. Tony turns to find Rhodey watching them, arms crossed and eyebrow raised.

“I’ll just crash at Carol’s tonight, then?”

Tony waggles his eyebrows. “Oh yeah you will.”

Rhodey rolls his eyes. “We’re not like that, Tony.”

“Not yet,” Tony says. “But all girls love chocolate, you just gotta give her a taste -“

“I’m walking away now, Tony,” Rhodey says. “Steve, its good to see you. Don’t let him eat the leftovers in the fridge. Tony, I’m serious, if you eat my fucking pad thai I’ll make it so you’re never able to eat again.”

“Jesus, Rhodey,” Tony calls after him, even as Rhodey turns and starts jogging towards the bike path. “Overdramatic much?”

Rhodey just flips him off over his shoulder without turning around.

“You shouldn’t harass him so much,” Steve says. “He’s the one that planned this with me, you know.”

Tony rolls his eyes, shrugging his backpack off one shoulder. “Honeybear will live. Here,” and he foists his backpack off to Steve, who buckles for a second under the unexpected weight. “Let’s go.”

“Am I your mule, now?” Steve asks, amused, even as he slings the bag over his shoulder. “Jesus, what do you even have in this thing?”

“Books,” Tony says. “Have those not made it to the army yet?”

“No, but they should,” Steve says. “Slogging one of these through the mud would be a good exercise - I should make a suggestion to the drill sergeant.”

“Or not,” Tony says.

“Or not,” Steve agrees.

They fall into step together as they head towards Tony’s apartment, Tony leading, Steve following. Tony’s never been big on public displays of affection, and he knows Steve doesn’t love them either, but he can’t quite help reaching out to lace his fingers through Steve’s, pressing himself up against Steve’s side.

“Happy birthday,” Steve says after a moment, and Tony squeezes the hand in his.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. They’re quiet the rest of the walk.

-

It’s the end of June, early summer heat just beginning to bleed into the truly torturous sauna of July, when things go wrong.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Tony says, tucking the phone under his ear. It’s a Wednesday - the best day of the week. Or it’s supposed to be, at least.

“Hey.” Steve’s voice is uncharacteristically thin, but Tony thinks it might just be the connection.

“How are you doing?” Tony asks.

“Oh, you know,” Steve says. “Tired.”

Tony hums. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he says. “If it makes you feel any better, that seems to be a shared sentiment around these parts.”

“Yeah?” Steve asks.

He sounds so - dull. Lackluster and exhausted, and Tony debates calling him out of it but he doesn’t want to press. Maybe Steve just needs a little cheering up. Tony’s heard him on bad days before, and he’s not deluded enough to think he makes it all better, but Steve does sound happier after talking to Tony, especially if Tony can get a few laughs out of him.

“Oh, yeah,” Tony says. “You remember that nitwit mechanics professor I told you about? Well, we’ve got a project due in his class this Friday and I had just about finished it when he sent out an email saying he was changing the requirements, had mistyped them the first time. So now I have to essentially redo the entire project. I mean, it’s fine, I can do it, but isn’t that just insane?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, sounding no more energized than before. “Insane.”

Tony chews on his lip for a moment before he continues, “So, anyway, Brucie and I will be camped out in the lab building for at least a couple of days working on it. Poor guy’s even more stressed than I am, but hey, that’s the college life.”

Steve mumbles something sharp Tony can’t quite make out.

“What was that?” he asks, hoping it was agreement, a joke, maybe.

“I said you don’t know what real stress is,” Steve snaps, and a jolt of ice goes through Tony’s heart.

“I know,” Tony says slowly, placatingly. He feels like he’s trying to calm down an angry bear. “Hey, I’m just joking around. I know. Are you okay?”

“I would be more okay if I wasn’t pretty sure you were cheating on me with Bruce!”

Tony gapes. “What?” he manages finally. “You can’t be serious. Bruce?”

“You know, you not denying it isn’t doing much for your case right now,” Steve snarls.

Tony can’t help but feel like he’s having a conversation with a clone. Steve has never spoken to Tony like this before. It’s like someone or something has swooped down and replaced his boyfriend and that’s who’s spouting these ridiculous accusations.

“Why on Earth would you even think that?” Tony demands.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Steve laughs, but there’s no joy in it. “You just spend all your time with him. You call him Brucie-bear and lovely and cutie-pie. And even when you’re on the phone with me, the one goddamn hour we get together every week, you want to talk about him!”

“And whose fault is that, Steve? Whose fault is it that we only get one hour together a week, because it sure as hell isn’t mine!”

“You knew that! You knew that, going into this, you knew what it would be like, I gave you an out! You chose to be here, you chose to stay loyal to me! And now you’re screwing someone else!”

“Well, he who smelt it dealt it,” Tony snaps.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean, are we in preschool again -“

“It means you’re seeming awfully focused on the idea of an affair and it’s making me wonder whether you and Peggy are really just close friends or if you’ve been fucking her, too!”

“Peggy’s my superior officer!” Steve yells. “I wouldn’t do that!”

Tony manages to choke out a laugh. “Wow,” he says, “okay. No superior officers, I’ll just have to worry about you having an affair with all the other privates.”

There’s a long beat of silence.

“God,” Tony says, “Sometimes I fucking hate you.”

Steve laughs, the sound unlike any Steve-laugh Tony’s ever heard, twisted and cruel. “Yeah, well the feeling’s mutual,” he says, and Tony knows - Tony knows - that he started this as much as Steve did, fuck, he said it first, but it doesn’t stop the words from twisting and curdling in his chest, a heavy weight in his lungs when he tries to breathe.

“Fuck you, Rogers,” Tony manages, finally, and hangs up the phone.

It takes ten minutes for Tony’s anger to work itself out of his system - ten minutes he spends glaring at the ceiling and muttering to himself about dumbass soldiers. It takes fifteen minutes after that for the lingering annoyance and self-righteousness to fade, and then all Tony’s left with is the strange feeling in his chest and the sickening sensation that he’s just wildly fucked this up.

He sits on the couch and stares at the black TV screen, trying not to panic. It’s fine. It’ll be fine, right? It’s just a fight - a bad fight, but just a fight, couples have those all the time. This isn’t the end of them. Is it?

If Steve were here, Tony would already be begging him for forgiveness. Even if Steve weren’t here - if he were in Chicago or China or anywhere with access to a fucking phone - Tony would have already texted a dozen times and left at least three voicemails of apologies.

But Steve’s not here. Steve’s in fucking Iraq, fighting a goddamn war. Oh god, what if he gets hurt? What if - god - what if that’s the last thing Tony tells him? That he hates him, that, that -

He’s really panicking, now, so he does the only thing he can think of and calls Rhodey.

“I’m in study group, this better be good,” is the first thing Rhodey says when he picks up.

Tony doesn’t say anything, gasping and shaking and trying to breathe.

“Tones?” Tony makes a choked off sound in the back of his throat, and Rhodey must hear it, because he immediately puts on his calming voice, the one he always uses when Tony gets panic attacks. “Hey, Tones, it’s going to be okay, okay? Just try to breathe with me. In and out, that’s it, just breathe -“

It takes a few minutes for Tony’s breathing to even out, and when it finally does, Tony’s ashamed to realize that he’s got tears on his cheeks. “Rhodey,” he chokes out, “Rhodey, I -“ And then he can’t force himself to say anything else.

“Is Steve okay?” Rhodey asks, straight to business, and, god, Tony is such a fucking drama queen he hates himself sometimes, Steve is fine, it’s just a fight, why is he being like this?

“He’s - he’s not hurt,” Tony says, “But I fucked up, Rhodey, I really - I really fucked up.”

“What happened, Tony?” Rhodey asks carefully, and Tony loves him for that - that he asked what happened and not what did you do?

Tony recounts the confrontation carefully and in great detail. When he finishes, Rhodey is silent for a long moment before he finally sighs. “Oh, Tones.”

“I know,” Tony says, panicked, “I totally fucked up, what am I going to do? What if he leaves me? What if - what if something happens -“

“Okay, first off, take a breath, you don’t need to have another panic attack,” Rhodey says, and Tony forces himself to take a shaky breath in. “Secondly, it sounds like this is just as much his fault as yours. I’m not going to lie, you said some pretty shitty things, but so did he. So if he breaks up with you over this, he’s a hypocrite.”

“That’s not reassuring, Rhodey!”

“Let me finish,” Rhodey says. “He’s also not going to break up with you. That boy is head over heels for you, Tony, you know that. He would dive in front of a bullet for you.”

“He would dive in front of a bullet for anyone,” Tony grumbles.

“Well, that’s probably true,” Rhodey acquiesces, “But if it was a choice between diving between anyone else and a bullet and diving in front of you and a bullet, he’d dive in front of you.”

Yeah, Tony thinks, and it just makes him feel worse.

“Rhodey,” he says, “I told him I hate him. Who says that? What if he -“

“He’s probably beating himself up just as much as you are right now,” Rhodey says. “Come on, you know him, I bet he regretted it the second he hung up the phone.”

“Ugh,” Tony groans, slumping back into the couch cushions. “I know. Fuck, and now I have to wait a week to apologize. This sucks.”

“Well,” Rhodey starts, “maybe not. Isn’t Barnes in his unit?”

“Yeah,” Tony says slowly. “Where are you going with this?”

“A couple weeks ago I was out with Natasha and she got a call from him, had to leave the library to take it,” Rhodey says. “That was a Thursday. Calls are at the same time each week, right?”

Tony all but bolts up. “Right,” he breathes, “Right, which means Bucky will be calling Natasha tomorrow, which means -“

“Which means she can pass on a message,” Rhodey confirms, and Tony sighs in relief.

“I love you,” he says, “Have I mentioned that recently? Because, really, I do, honeybear, you are my moon and my stars -“

“I’ll be home at seven with pizza and ice cream,” Rhodey says, “Don’t kill yourself before then,” and then he hangs up the phone.

Tony calls Natasha immediately. She picks up after four rings, just when Tony thinks it’s going to go to voicemail.

“What’s wrong,” she asks flatly, because Tony never calls her.

“I had a fight with Steve,” he blurts. “A bad one. A really really bad one. I need a favor.”

Natasha sighs. “I’m not giving you my phone call.”

“No, that’s not - what, can they even do that? No, I just wanted you to pass on a message. Can you tell Bucky to tell Steve that I’m sorry? Really, really sorry. And I’m an asshole. And I didn’t mean it, not at all.”

“Well, you are an asshole,” she says dryly. “I’ll tell him. Maybe throw in a few extra adjectives there, too.”

“Thank you,” Tony says sincerely.

“You know, Bucky and I have gotten into fights before,” Natasha says, right as Tony’s about to hang up the phone. “I’ve said some - really bad things. And it’s always worked out in the end.” She pauses. “You two will be fine, Tony.”

Tony looks down at his shaking hands. “I really hope you’re right.”

-

The next day passes in an anxious blur. Tony can’t focus on anything, not even sleep; he lays awake, staring at the ceiling and imagining what Steve is doing, what Steve is thinking, if he’s feeling just as guilty and lonely as Tony, or if he’s still mad, if he’s moved on, if he’s planning out a letter that will tell Tony in no uncertain terms that this was it, the straw that broke the camel’s back, he can’t do this anymore, not with someone as unbearable as Tony -

No, Tony tells himself, firmly. It’s fine. You’re fine. It’ll be fine.

He goes to class in the morning, and spends the time staring blankly off in the distance. In the afternoon, he tries to go to the lab, but he can’t focus, keeps fucking up the wiring on what should be a basic circuit board and eventually decides to just throw in the towel and try to distract himself until Natasha calls him and tells him that she’s passed on the message.

He really should have asked her what time she gets to call Bucky, Tony thinks as he starts in on his second glass of jack. Rhodey had been frustratingly vague, which means Tony could get a call at any time, and the anticipation really is killing him.

His phone rings as he’s polishing off his fourth glass, the third episode of Brooklyn Nine Nine just starting on the screen in front of him. Tony only briefly considers letting it ring for a moment before he bolts for the phone, picking it up right away.

“Hello?” he asks breathlessly.

“Steve had the exact same idea as you,” Natasha tells him, matter-of-fact. “Wants you to know how sorry he is, and that he’s an idiot, and that he loves you more than life itself - something like that, anyway, Bucky didn’t seem too fond about relaying the specifics.”

Tony breathes out a sigh of relief, some of the tension of the last day draining from his shoulders. “Thank you,” he says. Then something occurs to him, and he’s bolting back up. “Wait, fuck, I forgot to tell him I loved him!”

“Please, think about who you’re talking to,” Natasha says. “I tacked that on for you.

“Thank you,” Tony says again. “Seriously, thank you, you are a goddess -“

“Yeah, yeah, don’t get your panties in a twist,” Natasha says, and hangs up on him.

It still doesn’t relax Tony, not completely. Because he still feels like he needs to talk to Steve, tell it to him himself - I’m sorry, I’m an asshole, I love you so much it fucking hurts.

But it does make him feel a lot better. Enough that he’s able to focus on classes and robotics and remembering how to microwave Lean Cuisine without melting the plastic wrap all over the food (once, Rhodey, I did that once, after I’d been up for forty-seven hours, so sue me!). Still, by the time Wednesday rolls around, Tony is jittery and anxious. He runs and showers and puts on his softest hoodie he owns, the one Steve bought last fall and wore for three weeks before he shipped out. It doesn’t smell like him anymore, not after so many weeks away, but it reminds Tony of him, and that’s enough.

For the whole hour before Steve is supposed to call him, Tony waits on the couch next to his phone, watching TV at an almost imperceptible volume in the background. When his phone does finally buzz, he picks it up before the first ring is out.

“Hello?”

“Tony,” Steve says, voice warm and kind and so Steve it kind of makes Tony want to cry. “Sweetheart, I am so, so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, I’m sorry,” Tony says. “I love you, Steve, I swear I didn’t mean it.”

“Even if you did, I wouldn’t blame you,” Steve says hoarsely. Oh, god, he sounds choked up - has he been crying? “I was being - completely unreasonable, I realize that, I had just had a really shitty day - but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you -“

“Hey, that’s what I’m here for,” Tony says. Steve makes a disbelieving noise, but Tony ploughs on, “No, seriously. I recognize that you’re doing some really difficult, stressful things and I don’t ever want you to feel like you can’t come to me with something, can’t tell me something. I’m here to support you.”

“That goes both ways,” Steve says. “It’s - I know that your life, it isn’t quite the same, it’s not life and death, but it’s - it’s still your life. I like hearing about your day. I like hearing about how you’re doing. And if something is bothering you, or stressing you out - I want to support you through that, too.”

“Steve, I can’t ask you to -“

“This is a relationship, Tony,” Steve reminds him gently. “A romantic relationship of equal partners. You are not my mother, or my nursemaid - I want to take care of you, too. Let me.”

Tony swallows hard. “Why didn’t you tell me you were jealous of Bruce?”

Steve sighs, the sound crackling over the long-distance call. “I’m not, really,” he says. “Like I said, I was just in a foul mood. I know you would never be unfaithful.”

“Same,” Tony hears himself saying. “Really, I don’t - I mean, okay, maybe I’m a little jealous of Peggy, just because she gets to see you all the time, and I don’t, but I know you wouldn’t - cheat on me, or anything. I mean, if you ever - if you ever started wanting other people, I hope you would tell me -“

“I won’t,” Steve says confidently. Tony’s doubt must convey itself over the phone, because Steve continues, “I won’t, Tony, really. I love you. I hope you believe that.”

“I do,” Tony says softly. He’s surprised to find he means it.

“Good,” Steve says, just as soft. “I missed you this week, you know.”

“Oh, so you didn’t miss me the other weeks?” Tony teases despite the lump in his throat. He doesn’t want to cry the whole phone call; that’d be useless.

“I miss you always,” Steve says, startlingly sincere. It’s all Tony can do to keep breathing and not burst out into tears.

“Anyway,” Steve says after a moment, when it becomes apparent Tony’s not going to speak. “How has your week been? You ever figure out that issue with the experiment?”

“Actually, I have a funny story about that -” Tony starts.

By the time he hangs up the phone an hour later, Tony feels fresh and new, like he’s just taken a shower after a three-day workshop binge. Everything’s fine. He and Steve are fine.

Still, he takes the time to grab a sheet of yellow notebook paper and a pen before he settles back on the couch. He presses play on the TV, and starts writing.

Hey, sweetheart.

-

Days drip by. Tony upgrades Dummy and starts building him a brother he names Butterfingers. Rhodey finally gets his head out of his ass and asks Carol out. They start dating, and eventually Carol introduces them to her friends, namely Thor and V, who turn out to be sincere, energetic, and fucking hilarious. Tony’s friends finally feel like a distinct group, and often he finds himself thinking that this is the sort of clique he’s been looking for - friends so close they feel like family, that trope always seen in Hollywood movies but so rarely found in real life.

The only thing missing is Steve.

But they’re doing better, both of them, and so when Christmas rolls around and Steve gets to come home, Tony is thrilled, but he doesn’t need to see him, not in the way he had before. That’s why, when Steve tells him his flight is getting in at two in the morning the day before his last final, Tony tells him he should go straight to his Ma’s. I’ll come see you as soon as my exam is over, Tony promises, and feels very adult for having made that decision.

Of course, that only lasts until it’s two a.m. the night before his exam, and all Tony can think is that Steve is back, and in the country, and Tony could be seeing him, right now, if past him wasn’t such a goddamn idiot. He barely sleeps, and feels like he’s dreaming throughout his entire exam.

He’s true to his word though; the second he gets out of class he’s racing home to grab his suitcase and then hailing the nearest cab he can find.

He’s jittery, knees shaking, by the time the taxi deposits him on the front steps of Sarah’s apartment. His suitcase means he has to wait for the elevator, and he bemoans the antique building as the floor numbers tick down in unsteadily.

Finally, though, he’s outside Sarah’s apartment. No sooner has he knocked on the door than it is flung open and he finds Steve, pink-cheeked and beaming at him.

“Hi,” Steve says dopily, and Tony throws himself forward into Steve’s arms, the solid warmth of him.

“Hi,” Tony mumbles into Steve’s shoulder. Behind Steve, there’s a click, and Tony glances over his shoulder to find Sarah grinning at him, camera in hand.

“You’re so adorable,” she coos, and Steve groans but Tony just laughs, burying his face back into Steve’s neck.

“I missed you,” Tony murmurs, quiet enough that only Steve can hear.

Steve’s grip on Tony’s waist tightens, and he rubs his face against Tony’s shoulder. It feels wet. “I love you so much,” he whispers.

Two weeks, Tony thinks. Two whole weeks with his Steve by his side. Could practically be a year. Time is just a matter of perspective.

Tony focuses on the feeling of Steve in his arms, not the seconds falling away.

-

It’s not that Tony can’t stop thinking about it, per say. It’s just that he can’t stop thinking about it.

Everywhere he goes, he sees them: old married couples, young married couples, moms with rings on their fingers, the barista at the coffee shop with a tiny little ring, the burnished gold on his academic advisor’s finger. Rings in shop windows and in Kay Jeweler’s Christmas ads, rings in a bowl in the mechanics lab, removed to prevent degloving.

Tony sees them, and Tony’s chest aches, and he finds himself touching the empty space on his own hand.

And it’s bubbling in his mind and in his heart, and eventually it just - bubbles out.

They’re at Steve’s mom’s apartment, in the living room. Sarah had gone out to get last-minute supplies for tomorrow’s Christmas meal, leaving Tony and Steve at home lounging on the couch. Tony’s poking around at some mechanics designs; Steve’s reading a book.

“You know,” Tony says, heart beating double time in his chest, “You’d get paid more if you had a dependent.”

Bad way to start that, Tony thinks. It’s not like this is a proposal - obviously not, they’re in sweatpants and neither of them has a ring - but even so, it’s kind of a weak way to start the conversation. Talking about money? Steve’s already insecure about that, and what if he takes this the wrong way, what if he thinks Tony wants to get married just because he wishes Steve were more affluent -

“Yeah?” Steve asks absently, flipping a page. “What, like a kid? That makes sense, I guess.”

“Well, no - I mean, yes, but also no.” Tony takes a deep breath, and sets down his tablet, turning to face Steve. Focus. Catching the movement, Steve looks up at him, letting the book fall to rest in his lap. “Technically, that’s true, but that’s not what I was getting at. If you - got married, you would get more money, too.”

Steve blinks. “Oh,” he says. “I hadn’t considered that.”

What does that mean? He hadn’t considered doing it for the monetary benefit or he hadn’t considered it at all? Tony shrugs to hide his disappointment and picks his tablet back up. “Just thought it was interesting,” he says, “Since you were thinking about saving for school. Doesn’t matter, really.”

Tony swipes at his tablet screen, not actually working on anything but wanting to look busy. After a moment, he feels Steve’s hand settle on his thigh.

“Hey, Tony,” Steve says softly, and Tony lowers the tablet enough to see Steve smiling at him. “It’s not a bad idea, in theory,” Steve says, and Tony’s heart leaps into this throat, “but when I marry you, I want to do it right.”

And, really, is there any way Tony could not melt when Steve says something like that?

“When, huh?” Tony asks, unable to help himself.

Steve grins at him. “Yeah, when,” he says, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to Tony’s lips. “As long as that’s something you want.”

“Yeah,” Tony murmurs, leaning his forehead against Steve’s. “Yeah, that’s, uh, definitely something I’m interested in.”

“Good,” Steve says, and kisses him again. They don’t stop for a long while, not until they hear the garage door slam and Sarah calling, “Boys! Stop necking and come help me carry this inside!”

Tony laughs all the way to the car.

-

The thing about dating a soldier is that it’s has its ups and downs.

Of course it does. Any relationship does. But when you’re in a relationship with a soldier, the highs and lows are even sharper. Some days are incredible - days Tony gets to talk to Steve on the phone after not hearing from him for a week or two, days when he gets a letter in the mail, days when Steve arrives home and Tony gets to hug him and hold him and kiss him, feel him pressed up against him, his breath on Tony’s collarbones, his heartbeat reverberating through Tony’s entire body.

But other days. Other days Tony regrets his decision to date Steve at all. It’s horrible, and aching, and makes him feel terribly guilty afterwards, but he can’t help it. It’s just so - wrenching, the empty space beside him, the sound of the dial tone, the view of Steve walking away. It makes him almost wish he didn’t get to call Steve or see him or read his letters. It’s such a fleeting high, he almost doesn’t know if it’s worth it at all.

And then Steve will call. And Tony will stare at the phone, and it will ring, once, twice, and Tony will pick up the phone and it will be Steve, and Tony will melt. And Steve will ask about Tony’s life and tell him he loves him and Tony will forget all his reasons for not wanting this. It’s Steve. He loves him.

Of course it’s worth it.

-

When he finds out, he’s in his living room, surrounded by his friends.

It’s so stupid, in hindsight: here he is, laughing and having fun and steadily working his way to drunk, and Steve is - is -

The knock on their door is unexpected. They’re in the middle of a game of drunk Jenga, and everyone pauses at the sound, glancing up towards the entry.

“Probably a noise complaint,” Rhodey says. “Thor, you go get it, you’re the only one who’s twenty-one.”

“Nah, if the issue is noise Thor’s only gonna make it a million times worse,” Tony says, pushing himself to his feet. He sways slightly, but forces himself to straighten his spine. Channel sobriety, he thinks, channel Steve.

He straightens his shirt and his hair, then opens the door, grinning his publicity grin. “We’re so sorry about the noise, we’ll -“

The words die in his throat. At the door is not an angry neighbor, or the landlord, or even a cop; it’s two men in military dress, holding their hats in their hands.

No, Tony thinks, no, no, no -

“Mr. Stark?” one of the men asks. “May we come in?”

Tony has to consciously think about breathing.

“Is he alive?” he manages, and he practically feels the attitude of the room change. Behind him, he vaguely registers the sound of murmured voices, people moving, but all he has eyes for is the men in front of him, as he tries desperately to gauge their expressions.

“Maybe you should sit down,” one of the men says, and Tony’s heart is beating triple time in his chest, and all he can think is no, no, no.

“Steve,” he chokes out, “Steve,” and then Rhodey is there, gripping Tony around the shoulders, keeping him from sinking to his knees.

“What happened,” Rhodey demands, no question in his voice, and Tony doesn’t miss the way the two men glance at each other before one answers.

“There was an attack on Private Rogers convoy,” one says. “He is in critical condition.”

“But he’s alive?” Rhodey asks.

“He is alive,” the man confirms, and Tony’s eyes close of their own accord.

Thank god, he thinks, thank god, thank god, thank god, and if he wasn’t a religious man before this, maybe he will be one now.

“His convoy?” someone asks behind him, and Tony realizes Natasha is here, and has heard everything. “My boyfriend is in that convoy, Private Barnes. Is he -“

The men glance at each other again. “Can we see some identification?”

There’s a lengthy pause as Natasha goes to get her ID from her purse. Standing in the entryway, being held up by Rhodey’s arms around him, all Tony can think is that this feels utterly surreal. This can’t be real life, this must be a nightmare. There’s no way -

“What happened to Steve?” he croaks out.

“As we said, there was an attack on Private Roger’s convoy,” the first man says. The second has pulled Natasha aside, and is speaking to her in hushed tones. Clint stands at her side, hand on her elbow. “Private Rogers took a hit from shrapnel, and is in critical but stable condition.”

“Where is he?” Rhodey asks.

“He’s currently at a military hospital in Baghdad, but if he remains stable, he’ll be moved to Germany within the next twelve hours.”

Baghdad. Germany. Critical but stable. Critical.

“I need to see him,” Tony manages.

“Once Private Rogers’ improves, we can set up a phone call -” The officer starts.

“No,” Tony interrupts, voice harsh. “No, I need to see him. I need to - I need to go to Germany. I’m going to Germany.”

“Tones -” Rhodey starts, but Tony shakes his head.

“I can - I can get a flight, I’ll go to military hospital there and I’ll - I’ll wait, and they’ll move Steve over there and I’ll be there, it’ll be fine -”

“I understand how difficult this must be for you, Mr. Stark,” the officer says, “But unfortunately, civilians are not allowed -”

“No,” Tony says, “No, my father is Howard fucking Stark, if I want to go to a fucking military hospital then I’m going to go to a fucking military hospital -”

“Tony, just try to breathe -”

“No!” Tony shouts, wrenching himself free of Rhodey’s grip. Without the support, he stumbles backwards, until he’s leaning heavily against the back of the couch. “No,” he chokes out. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. Steve is fine, he isn’t hurt, this is a mistake, or maybe he’s hurt but barely, just a broken ankle, some shrapnel in his foot, and Tony will get to the hospital and Steve will roll his eyes and smile as ask Tony why he did something this stupid in that fond way of his -

Dimly, Tony registers voices in the background - Natasha still talking to one of the officers, Rhodey taking over for Tony, Thor and Jane whispering to each other over by the TV, out of the way of the action -

Tony pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials it with fumbling fingers. It rings once, twice, three times, before finally Howard’s secretary picks up the phone.

“Howard Stark’s office,” she says cheerfully.

“It’s me,” Tony chokes out, “Tony. I need to speak with him.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, “Your father’s busy right now. Can I take a message?”

Tony squeezes his eyes shut, takes a breath. “Tell him he needs to pick up the fucking phone right now or I go to the press with the photos. I’ll wait.”

There’s a pause. “Uh, one moment, sir,” she says, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain, and there’s a brief dial tone before she’s back on the line. “Transferring you to Mr. Stark now,” she says smoothly, and a moment later, Howard’s heavy breathing comes onto the receiver.

Drunk, Tony thinks, hearing it even in his father’s breath. Drunk.

“Tony,” Howard says, voice harsh and cold. “What the hell do you want?”

“I’m playing the card,” Tony says. Under his fingers is a worn blanket thrown over the back of the couch; it’s a Dodgers blanket Steve had brought over ages ago that had never really found it’s way home. Tony can remember dozens of times they’d sat on this sofa, curled up under it, sharing popcorn and slurpees and shouting at stupid rom-coms. “I need you to get me to Germany.”

-

Twelve hours later, Tony’s stepping inside the cool walls of Landstuhl Regional Medical Center.

“This way,” the military officer who’d appeared on the tarmac says. “Private Rogers is on the seventh floor.”

Tony follows on his heels, and behind him, Sarah. Tony’d called her as soon as he hung up on Howard; she’d been visited by the military officers at the same time as Tony, and was shaken and quiet on the phone.

I’m going to Germany, Tony had said. The flight leaves in an hour. I’ll send a helicopter to pick you up.

Under any other circumstances, she would have probably protested the expense, but on the phone, she’d just been quiet. I’ll pack my bags, she had said. See you in an hour.

The plane ride over had been quiet, too. Neither of them had really wanted to speak, and instead they had sat, side by side, silent in Tony’s father’s lush private jet, as flight attendants offered them hot towels and snacks and champagne. Tony had curled deeper into his ARMY WIFE sweatshirt and tuned everything out.

“Private Rogers condition is still stable,” the officer says as they step out of the elevator. “But in order to keep it that way, nurses are requesting you maintain a quiet atmosphere in the room.”

Tony almost laughs. A quiet atmosphere. Steve’s got shrapnel in his lungs and his stomach and an inch away from his heart, not to mention the dozens of other less life-threatening wounds affecting just about every part of his body. What do they think Tony’s going to do, throw a fucking bazaar?

Beside him, Sarah just nods, like this is advice she was expecting. Maybe she was; she is a nurse, after all - she must have some idea of the way these things go.

“Private Rogers is in room 732,” the officer says, finally pausing outside a door. It’s glass, but a curtain has been drawn behind it, so all that can be seen of the room is the faint blotches of red lights from machines shining through the thin plastic.

“I must warn you,” he continues, “that Private Rogers’ appearance may be shocking -”

“Oh for God’s sake,” Tony interrupts, jaw clenching, “We know what condition he’s in. And for the record, his name is Steve.”

He doesn’t wait for the officer to reply before he pulls open the door and the curtain and steps inside the room.

It’s large. Stupidly that’s the first thought that comes to Tony’s mind. The room is large, and almost all of that space is filled with monitors and IV drips and emergency call buttons and, in the middle of all of it, Steve.

He’s pale and yellowed, his skin almost leathery against the stark sheets. Bandages wrap around his torso, peeking free from under the covers; under them, Steve’s neck and shoulders are swollen into disfiguring bulges. He looks like something straight out of a dystopian novel - sick, broken people, kept alive by the artificial ones and zeros of a machine.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Tony hears himself whisper, finally forcing his legs to move so he can come close enough to carefully takes Steve’s hand in his own. “What did they do to you?”

The only reply is the steady flicker of Steve’s heart rate on the monitor.

-

Tony had known what he was getting into before they had gotten here - or at least he should have known, should have anticipated the state Steve would be in after an IED exploded in his face - but the reality of the situation still manages to confound him. Some part of Tony had imagined that all it would take was his presence, and Steve would magically awaken from his medically-induced coma, all but healed, joking and laughing and ready to get back up on his feet.

The reality is both more dire and more dull. Minutes turn into hours turn into days, and Steve lays motionless on the table, eyelashes like spiders legs against his stark cheeks. The nurses come in periodically to turn him, change him, change his sheets, and each time Tony expects Steve to wake at their touch, but he just lolls around like an especially heavy rag doll. It’s difficult to watch.

Sarah seems less dejected than Tony. Of course she does - she’s a nurse. Not on the ICU, maybe, but who knows how many comatose patients she’s seen, how many people incapable of taking care of themselves, how many people in vegetative states -

Don’t, Tony thinks, sharply cutting off the thought. Steve is going to be fine.

It’s the afternoon of their second day in the hospital, and Sarah is knitting. It’s wide and square and made of thick yarn one of the nurses had brought her. Tony thinks it’s going to be a blanket.

Tony, for his part, is sitting by Steve’s beside, holding his hand. He hasn’t done much else these past few days. He has schoolwork he should get to, engineering projects to work on and friends to update, but every movement feels arduous. He hasn’t slept since they’ve arrived, and it feels so much easier to just sit here, staring at Steve’s unchanging form, than to remember the rest of the world, moving on around them. For a moment - just a moment - he’d like everything to stop and match pace with him.

“You know how Steve told me about you?” Sarah asks suddenly.

Startled, Tony doesn’t do anything but shake his head.

“He came home to visit for the weekend. And he was grinning more than I’d ever seen him. And I asked him what happened and he said, ‘Ma, I’ve met a boy.’ And I said, ‘A nice boy, I hope?’ And he said, ‘The nicestest. I’m telling you, Ma, this is the man I’m going to marry.’”

Tony sucks in a sharp breath. It hurts more than he would have thought it would. He thinks about Jarvis’s brother, his brother’s wife, what she would have looked like, sitting in his hospital room.

“You are going to marry him, Tony,” Sarah says. She speaks with the confidence of an adult, of someone who understands their place in the world and the way things work. Someone Tony is not.

“How can you know that?” Tony chokes out.

“I just do,” Sarah says simply. “I guess you could say I have faith. Not in God. In Steve. He’s an honest boy, always has been. He keeps his word. No matter how large or how small a promise.”

Tony looks down at the hand in his. It’s big and warm and more cut-up than Tony’s ever seen it, but Tony knows it’d be just as gentle as ever. It’s an artist’s hand, after all.

He hope Steve wakes up soon, so he can feel that careful touch.

-

Tony gets his wish less than twenty-four hours later.

Sarah’s sleeping, sprawled in the plastic recliner by the window. For a brief second, when the monitors start to beep faster, Tony considers waking her up. But then Steve’s eyes are blinking open and Tony decides, selfishly, to keep this moment for himself.

“Hi,” Tony croaks. Steve shifts on the bed, fingers curling against Tony’s palm even as the monitors’ beeping reaches frantic levels. Tony swallows back tears, leaning forward to cup Steve’s face in his free hand. “Hey, sweetheart, it’s just me. Can you focus on me, honey?”

Steve blinks slowly, and for a moment, Tony thinks he can’t - or won’t - do it. But then his eyes start moving, slowly; and then they land on Tony, and they pause.

Steve’s lips move like he’s trying to say something. Tony, probably.

“There you go. It’s just me, don’t worry.” Steve squeezes Tony’s hand, and Tony squeezes back. “You got a little beat up out there, but you’re going to be just fine. They’ve got you on the good meds, and everyone is taking good care of you.” Tony swallows, again, fighting the sting of tears on the back of his eyes. “Does anything hurt?”

Steve just blinks up at him. Under the oxygen mask, his lips are curled upward, just the barest hint of a smile. Must be really out of it, Tony thinks, even as his stomach flips.

“Just get some rest, sweetheart,” he says finally. “Okay? I’ll be here when you wake up.”

He rubs circles on Steve’s palm with his thumb, too afraid to reach forward and give him any more comfort, at least not when he’s as fragile as this. As Tony watches, Steve’s blinks grow slower and slower, and then his eyes slide shut and don’t reopen.

Tony takes a deep breath and tries to force himself to relax. Steve is fine. Steve will be fine.

-

It’s almost half a day before Steve wakes again. Tony fills in the nurses as soon as he sees them, and Sarah, of course, when she wakes. The medical staff are excited, of course, but urge Tony to remain practical; it is a good sign that Steve has woken, but not a sure one. They’re still not sure of the damage that has been done to the brain, how long it will take Steve to fully shake his way free of the sedation. There are cases where it’s taken weeks. He should be prepared for a long wait.

“They don’t know our Stevie,” Sarah says, after the neurosurgeon leaves after his morning consult. He’d given them the same canned speed all the overnight nurses had; good sign, definitely looking up, but remain cautious in your optimism. Cliches and jargon and nothing substantial. “They don’t know how strong he is. If they knew, they’d understand.”

Tony knows it’s naive, to expect your loved one is the exception rather than the rule, but he can’t help but agree with her. After all, it’s Steve. He’s the strongest person Tony knows, has been through more pain than most, and somehow has come out on the other side of it a shining diamond of a human being. Tony can’t imagine him being anything but the exception.

“He’ll wake up soon,” Tony tells Sarah. She smiles, pats his hand. “I know it. I can feel it.”

“Yeah,” Sarah sighs, leaning back in her recliner. “I can feel it, too.”

Tony’s not sure if either of them are lying.

They sit there together for a while in a comfortable silence, the only sound in the room the reassuring beeps of Steve’s machines. Outside, the sun is starting to rise, soft and yellow, on the horizon. Rounds start painfully early at the military hospital, so it’s only five in the morning, and Tony finds himself dozing in his chair as the sunlight works its way up his chest.

He’s forced back to reality when the heart rate monitor’s beeping suddenly shifts from reassuring to panicked. Tony drags his eyes open, only to find Steve, not only awake but moving, trying to push himself up from his bed.

“What the hell,” Tony exclaims, already darting forward to push Steve back onto the bed. “Stop that!”

Steve’s eyes meet Tony’s, briefly, and it’s clear that he recognizes him, but it doesn’t stop him from trying to wriggle out of Tony’s grip. Tony tries to keep him down, but he can only do so much, and eventually Steve manages to dislodge the oxygen mask from his face.

“Bucky,” Steve gasps, voice raspy from disuse. “He was -“

“He’s fine,” Tony says. “Steve, please stop, he’s fine, he’s in a military hospital, you’re both fine.”

Steve stills under Tony’s grip. “You’re sure?” he manages.

“I’m positive,” Tony promises. “I swear, now would you - please put that back on, you’re going to give me a heart attack.”

Finally, Steve relents, sinking back into the pillows and pulling the oxygen mask up over his face. Tony sighs, taking one of Steve’s hands in his.

“Do you remember waking up yesterday?” he asks, and Steve shakes his head. “There was an explosion, but you’re going to be okay. You got - well, it doesn’t matter right now. But, uh, I’m here, and so’s your mom, and we’re not going anywhere, okay?”

“He’s right.”

Tony doesn’t turn, but feels Sarah when she steps up beside him. “Hi, sweetheart,” she says, settling her hand on Steve’s knee. Vaguely, Tony thinks he ought to step back, give her and Steve some space, but he can’t quite bring himself to let go of Steve’s hand. “It’s good to see you awake.”

Steve tries to rasp something out under the mask, then, frustrated, moves to take it off again. Tony moves to stop him, but before he can, Sarah swats at his wrist.

“That mask is on you for a reason, mister,” she says. “Stop trying to take it off or so help me God I will glue it to your face.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but his lips quirk upward and his hand falls back onto his lap.

  
“I’m going to go tell the nurses you’re up,” Sarah says. “Be right back.”

She gives Steve one last pat on the leg before she disappears out the door, pulling it shut quietly behind her. Without her presence, the room feels suddenly tense, the beeping of the machines so much more oppressive.

“You feeling okay, sweetheart?” Tony asks, settling on the edge of the bed. “Need more pain meds?”

Steve shakes his head.

“Want some water?”

Another head shake.

“Another blanket?”

No, no, no.

“Well, is there anything you do want?”

This time, Steve pauses, before slowly reaching up with his free hand. He cups Tony’s jaw with shaking fingers, rubbing his thumb once over Tony’s faint stubble.

“Steve?” Tony asks softly.

Steve’s lips move under the oxygen mask; mouthing something, maybe, but it’s hard to make out. I want -

“Sorry, honey, I didn’t catch that.”

Steve does it again, and Tony tries to watch closer this time, but he still can’t quite understand. I want, I want -

No. Understanding blooms suddenly, with an accompanying sharp twist in his chest. I love you.

“I love you, too, sweetheart,” Tony says, leaning forward to press a kiss to Steve’s forehead. “Everything’s going to be all right, okay? Everything’s going to be just fine.”

Steve nods. He’s smiling under his mask, like he’d never thought anything different.

-

Steve - drifts, after that. Sometimes he’ll wake and stay conscious for a few hours - long enough to fight the oxygen mask and the doctor’s insistence he remains in bed, at least for a few days - and sometimes only staying with them for a few moments before he’s drifting back to dreamland.

The doctors promise it’s all normal: a natural consequence of the sedative Steve had been on during surgery, and the pain meds he’s still on now. Tony wonders, though - when he sees the way Steve’s fingers twitch in his sleep, the frantic movement behind his eyelids, the way his breaths sometimes shudder and hitch for a while before settling. Steve’s platoon was attacked. A bomb blew up, not ten feet away from him; and now half of his platoon is dead, the other half gravely injured.

How strong would those medications have to be for Steve not to have nightmares?

It’s not until the third day of this limbo, though, when Steve wakes up, pawing at the mask on his face and gasping, “Bucky,” that Tony thinks, fuck it, and tears the damn thing off.

“Steve,” he says, grip firm on Steve’s shoulders. “Look at me. Steve. Hey, baby, there you are.”

Because Steve has finally focused on Tony, eyes startlingly blue in the wan room. “Tony,” he rasps, and Tony nods, letting his grip loosen and settle.

“That’s right, honey,” he says. “Do you remember where you are?”

“Germany,” Steve says, head thunking back on his pillow. “Hospital. Bucky’s in Baghdad.”

“That’s right,” Tony agrees, settling on the edge of Steve’s bed. He takes one of Steve’s hands in his, running his thumbs over the cracked lines of his palm; absently, he thinks they need to get some lotion for him.

“You okay?” Steve asks, fingers squeezing lightly around Tony’s.

Tony can quite help but raise his eyebrows. “Am I okay?” he asks. “I’m not the one who was hurt.”

Steve makes a face. “I can’t see how this would be easy for you,” he argues, and it’s just like him, to be worried about Tony when he got blown up by a goddamn bomb. It makes the backs of Tony’s eyes burn.

“I’ve been okay,” Tony says, redirecting his gaze to Steve’s hands. “Better now that you are. Your mom is still here, by the way - do you remember that? She’s in a room down the hall, getting some sleep, but I can go wake her up if you want.”

“No, that’s okay,” Steve says. “I’m sure she needs the rest.”

Tony huffs, brushing his thumb over Steve’s pulse. “Stop thinking about other people,” he says. “I think you’ve earned the right to think about yourself for a second.”

“Yeah?” Steve says. “Then can you do something for me?”

“Yes, of course, anything.”

Steve smiles at him, crinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes. “Kiss me,” he says.

Tony’s heart stutters. “Oh, sweetheart,” he says, leaning over the bed to cup Steve’s face delicately in one hand. He doesn’t want to touch too much - press too hard, come on too strong. Like this, Steve is fragile in a way he’s never been before, something that scares Tony as much as comforts him. “I’ll kiss you whenever you want,” he tells Steve, and then leans in and presses a soft kiss to his lips. Close-mouthed, chaste, short - but just enough.

When he moves back, Steve’s eyes are closed, eyelashes damp. “Hey, it’s okay,” Tony says, leaning his forehead against Steve’s. “You’re okay, sweetheart.”

“I thought I’d never see you again,” Steve croaks. “I thought - I got hit by a bomb and everything was sand and all I could think was I was never going to - never going to get to -”

“Shh,” Tony murmurs, rubbing his thumb against Steve’s cheek. “I’m right here. I’m right here, Steve, you’ve got me as long as you want me.”

“I love you,” Steve manages.

“I know,” Tony says. “I know, it’s okay, I love you, too.”

They sit there, breathing in each other’s air, for several long moments before Tony finally shifts back.

“Anyway,” he says, “I should probably give you an update on how everything’s going, hm? Bucky’s doing real good. They’re planning to move him here soon, so you guys should be neighbors, if all goes well. Everyone at home is really worried about you, they sent me about a million well-wishes I can read for you if you want, but they basically all just say: We love you! Also, FYI, Tony could paint a Pollock if he wanted to. Honestly, that’s it.”

Steve laughs lightly, tapping Tony halfheartedly in what he thinks is supposed to be a smack. “Stop it.”

“What?” Tony asks innocently. “That’s really what they said, Steve, I swear! What are you accusing me of? Of course our friends minds would automatically gravitate towards our long-standing debates at times like this!”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning. “Ridiculous,” he mutters.

“Yes, I agree, it’s a ridiculous time for them to bring it up, but I can’t exactly say they’re wrong -”

Tony’s cut off mid-sentence by the soft sound of someone rapping at the glass door. “Everyone decent?” someone asks, and Tony shifts a bit farther from Steve despite his frown before he calls, “Yeah, come on in!”

When the curtain pulls back, it reveals one of Steve’s nurses - Tony’s favorite. Her name is Samantha, and she’s incredibly kind. She brought Tony a cheese croissant on the second day he was in the hospital, when she noticed he didn’t eat at all throughout the entirety of her twelve-hour shift. It was a small gesture, but at a time like that - Steve still unconscious before him, feeling like he was one step away from being all alone in the world - it meant a lot.

“Oh, hey, you’re awake!” she exclaims, when she sees Steve, eyes open. “I’m Sam, it’s nice to finally get to talk to you.”

Steve smiles at her, but it’s weak.

“Tired?” she guesses, and Steve nods. “No worries, I’m used to it. Comes with a stint in the ICU. Okay, so I’m just here to change your bandages. Shouldn’t take too long at all, fifteen minutes at most. Tony, you mind stepping outside?”

Tony nods, moving to get off the bed, but before he can, Steve’s hand darts out, too-fast for the state he’s in, and grabs him around the wrist.

“Don’t go,” he croaks.

“I’m sorry, I have to,” Tony says, laying his hand over Steve’s and squeezing. “I’ll be right outside, it’s just a few minutes, honey, I promise.”

Steve turns to Samantha, eyes wide and hurt, and she grimaces apologetically. “Sorry,” she says, “I know it seems like a dumb rule, but only family are allowed in the room.”

“Should’ve - gotten married,” Steve manages, and Tony laughs a bit, ducking down to press a kiss to Steve’s forehead before he has to pull his wrist out of Steve’s grip.

“Let’s wait until you’re healed at least, soldier,” Tony says. “I’ll be right outside, okay?”

Steve nods, offering him the smallest sliver of a smile, and Tony steps out into the hallway.

The door slides shut with a click behind him, and immediately Tony sags against the wall, his breaths suddenly unsteady in his chest. He closes his eyes, presses his forehead against the cool cinderblock, and breathes.

Steve is fine. Steve is fine. Steve is fine.

“Hey, Tony, I’m - Tony?”

Tony pushes himself off the wall, wiping at his eyes hastily. “What’s up?” he asks, voice wet.

“Hey, what’s going on?” It’s Samantha. Tony checks behind her - the door is closed, the curtain pulled tight.

“Nothing, I’m fine,” Tony says. “Is Steve okay? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Samantha says, “But I checked his chart, and they changed his schedule, he doesn’t need new bandages for a few more hours. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Tony says, looking at himself in the glass door behind Samantha’s shoulder. God, he looks horrible, doesn’t he? No wonder she’s concerned. Messy hair, deep circles under his eyes, a patchy beard starting to grow in now that he’s not shaving. He looks horrible. Fuck.

“Is that why you were crying against the wall?” Samantha asks drly. Tony averts his gaze and doesn’t respond. “Come on, whatever it is, we can deal with it.”

“It’s not -” Tony shakes his head, swiping at his eyes again when fresh tears spring up. “It’s stupid,” he says.

“I highly doubt that,” she says.

“It’s just - God, I don’t even know, I’m just - I’m just worried this is all a dream? I know that’s dumb, but - but I’ve been so worried and now he’s just - he’s just okay, and I don’t know what to - to do with, I mean, what if he’s not really okay, what if -”

“Breathe,” Samantha interrupts, and Tony takes a shaking gasp in.

“Can I touch you?” she asks a moment later, and when Tony nods, settles her hands firmly on his shoulders. “Look at me.” She waits until Tony meets her gaze before she continues. “It’s okay to be upset. It’s okay to be overwhelmed, it’s okay to be anxious. Lord knows you’ve earned it. But Steve is going to be fine, okay? This is not a dream, this is not a fantasy, there’s not some unknown injury we don’t know about. Steve is getting incredible care, and he is going to be okay, and in a few weeks he is going to go home with you, okay? Everything is going to be okay.”

It’s like something snaps inside Tony at her words, and suddenly he’s crying like he’s never cried before, great heaving sobs that make his body shake and his stomach ache. Samantha, god bless her, doesn’t say a goddamn word, just pulls him close and lets him get snot and tears all over her scrubs.

Finally - after seconds or minutes or hours, Tony has no idea - the sobs begin to slow and stop, and Tony pulls away, wiping at his nose.

“Sorry,” he croaks.

“Don’t be sorry,” Samantha says, brushing Tony’s hair off his forehead.

Tony sniffs again, rubbing at his eyes. “I should probably get back in there,” he says. “Thank you for - thank you.”

“Anytime,” Samantha says seriously. “And, hey - what’s your favorite type of donut?”

“Powdered sugar,” he says.

“I’ll bring you one tomorrow, okay?” Samantha says, stepping back. “No, no, no,” she says, preempting Tony’s protest with a waggle of her finger. “I’m bringing one whether you like it or not so suck it up, mister.”

“Okay,” Tony says finally.

“Okay,” Samantha agrees, and then turns and heads out around a corner.

Tony takes a deep breath, wiping at his face one last time, then steps back inside the room.

It’s cool, quiet. Tony slides the door shut as quietly as possible, before peaking around the curtain to find - yep. Steve’s asleep again, slack-jawed, head bent back at an awkward angle on his stack of pillows. Tony’s heart swells in his chest.

He goes to rearrange the pillows, so Steve won’t have a crick in his neck.

-

The next few weeks pass in a blur of scrabble games and bickering and slow touches over scratchy sheets, Steve’s scruff brushing against Tony’s overgrown goatee, phone calls home and chocolate boxes Tony buys and splits with Steve, bratwurst smuggled in from street stalls and re-runs of shitty German television with awkwardly dubbed English subtitles. He gets Steve a little teddy bear in the tiny hospital gift shop; it’s blue and soft and Steve smiles whenever he sees it, keeping it tucked under his arm at all times. Despite his strength and stature, it never fails to make him look young and innocent when he pats it’s little head, and Tony’s heart never fails to melt when he sees it.

After a week and a half, Sarah has to return home. She does so reluctantly, and despite Tony’s insistence she stay - “Job, who needs a job when you have me?” - pressing kisses all over Steve’s face before finally leaving for the airport.

Six days after that, the doctors declare Steve sufficiently healed to return home.

“Is it too soon?” Tony asks Samantha in the hallway, as Steve’s neurosurgeon chats away with him about the Yankees most recent losing streak. “It feels too soon.”

“It’s not,” Samantha says. “It’s a good sign, Tony, it means he’s doing good.”

“But he’s - he’s still shaky, and his wounds aren’t healed, he’s - who’s going to change his bandages, and, and -”

“Hey,” Samantha says, settling her warm hands on his shoulders. “This is good. Of course he’s not going to stay here until he’s 100% healthy, or he’d never be 100% healthy. You know how to change his bandages. You know how to take care of him. This is good, Tony. You get to take him home.”

Their final day in Germany, Tony goes downstairs to get lunch and call Rhodey, and when he comes back up, Steve’s perched in a wheelchair, waiting for him.

“Hey, lover,” he grins, and Tony can’t help but bend and kiss him, touch light.

“Hi,” Tony whispers against his lips, before pulling back so he can take the handles of Steve’s chair. “You ready to go?”

Steve nods, wiggling a bit in his chair. “An orderly came and took our bags downstairs. You’ve got your phone and passport -” He waits for Tony’s nod - “And I’ve got my identification and cell. And Blueberry, of course.”

He wiggles the little bear tucked under his arm, and Tony laughs, leaning down to press a kiss to Steve’s cheek. “Off we go, then,” he says, and they start out of the hospital.

It’s strange, leaving. Tony’s thrilled, of course - of course he’s thrilled, Steve’s safe and healing and coming home - but it’s weird all the same, to be leaving this place where Tony thought his soul might die. He’ll never be back in this hospital again, never eat the shitty cafeteria food, never go walking in the park outside when his head feels like it’s going to explode, never talk to Samantha over greasy American donuts as Steve sleeps the day away in his hospital bed, one hand stretched towards Tony’s warmth.

“You alright?” Steve asks, as they unload from the bus onto the airstrip.

“Of course,” Tony says, heaving Steve’s duffel over his shoulder. “Why wouldn’t I be?”  
  


“I don’t know,” Steve says. “You just look - sad.”

“I’m not sad,” Tony says. “It’s just -” He glances around them, at the green trees and grass surrounding the airport. If it wasn’t for the long strips of concrete, Tony could imagine this as a clearing in a rural area, something like Iowa or Indiana.

“I don’t know,” Tony says. “I guess I just hope we never come back here.”

Tony almost startles when Steve slips his hand into Tony’s. It’s warm and callused and rough with scabbing cuts. “I’m fine,” he says, blue eyes bright.

“Yeah,” Tony says, squeezing Steve’s hand very lightly. “Yeah, I know.”

They board the jet in silence. Tony doesn’t look out the windows; instead, as the plane takes off, he looks at Steve.

The rest of his life.

-

Steve still thinks about it sometimes.

Iraq. Heat on the back of his neck and dust like plaster under his fingernails, the way dehydration swells a body. A bomb exploding in front of him; the feeling of metal shearing through his muscles and veins and tendons, the expression on Bucky’s face as he had fallen; what breath feels like, leaving your lungs, when you’re sure it won’t come back in.

Some days, it’s not a problem. Steve can get up and be happy, and make Tony breakfast and be happy, and go to class and learn about the particular way Monet held a paintbrush and be happy. In many ways, his life is already all he dreamed it would be at its zenith: warm hands and paint-splattered shoes and motor oil on the bed sheets.

But other days, Steve wakes up and it’s all he can think about. He sees dunes in clouds and rations in the pantry and enemies on the streets, and those days he isn’t very pleasant to be around. There are a lot of those days, at the beginning. It often feels as though it will never get better, and some afternoons Steve whiles away lying in bed, staring at the wet spot slowly disintegrating the plaster of the ceiling and wonders how long it will take what’s left of his brain to fall apart, too.

And then Tony will come home. He gets a sense of it, quickly, what Steve looks like on his bad days. And he’ll come home, and he’ll see Steve, and he won’t even push, just crawl in beside him, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling, hip pressed against Steve’s.

“Want to hear about my day?” he’ll ask softly.

At first, Steve says no a lot. But then, over time, he starts saying yes. He finds it comforting, to lay there and listen as Tony launches into a spiel about this or that or the other thing, what he built at the lab that day, a text Rhodey sent him, an art exhibit coming to a nearby museum he thinks Steve might like to see.

And usually - not always, but usually - after a little while, Steve finds the strength to get up.

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first Cap-IM BB and was such a pleasure! I'm not the best at writing long fics but you'll never improve if you don't practice, right? I hope you enjoyed this nonetheless!
> 
> Remember to give some love to the lovely art:  
> 1) https://archiveofourown.org/works/16653580  
> 2) https://archiveofourown.org/works/16664095
> 
> And come find me at nasafic.tumblr.com if you want to chat!


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